


February 1st, 2007: Revelations

by Jane0Doh



Series: The Hand of God [7]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Breaking the Law, Canon-Compliant for Criminal Minds, Cults, Drug Use, Episode: s02e14 The Big Game, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Hunters are a Cult, Intrigue, Kidnapped Spencer Reid, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Men of Letters, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Semi-smut, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:12:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 65,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doh/pseuds/Jane0Doh
Summary: The one where Spencer freezes up, and Sam cashes in a favour he didn't know he had.





	1. Development

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone for the wonderful comments! If you're a fan of the series, you probably know what's coming by the tags and the title, so buckle in lovelies... it's gonna be a bumpy ride.

**February 1 st @ 7am**

When Sam awoke that morning , it was to the smell of coffee and bacon.

Laying on his stomach, he curled his arms around the pillow under his head, smiling as he slowly crawled his way to consciousness. He could hear the sound of the coffee percolating, and the sizzling of a hot pan downstairs in the kitchen, so he knew if he fumbled around on the other side of the bed he would only find Spencer’s empty spot.

He did it anyways. It never hurt to have another pillow, he mused as he pulled Spencer’s over to him, smushing the side of his face against it and inhaling deeply. The smell of Spencer’s shampoo mingled with the delicious scent of cooking breakfast wafting up the stairs into the loft, and Sam sighed happily.

God, life was good.

Sam had been spending the night more frequently since the beginning of his residency, which was still hard work and long hours, but hardly as nightmarish as before. Spencer had gotten lucky on that front as well, having not been called in on a case in well over two weeks. And while they both appreciated the downtime, and the peace with which slow days at their jobs entailed, the best of it was that Sam had effectively been living at Spencer’s apartment.

It was much simpler to spend the night now. Not needing to hide his nightly rounds, Sam could actually get a decent night’s sleep, and while he was still embarrassed about them, Spencer was great at giving him privacy. Or rather, Spencer was great in general. Just when it came to accepting Sam’s compulsions, he was doubly so.

While he worried at first that he’d be intruding, Spencer was quick to put an end to that. He’d been the one to insist Sam stay over, and after the first few nights of trying to make excuses why he should go, Sam stopped trying. They were making up for lost time while they could, and it wasn’t as though he weren’t enjoying himself. On the contrary, he’d taken to life with Spencer like a duck to water, making himself as useful as he could, tidying up the clutter Spencer would invariably leave scattered around the house and coaxing him into using the actual living areas of his home. With Sam around, they actually sat on the couch and ate meals at the dinner table, instead of just holing up in Spencer’s room like he did when he was alone.

He explained to Sam once that the reason he stayed in his room was because it was his safe space. When he was growing up, when it was only him and his mom in the house, he used to sequester himself in his room while she was having one of her episodes. And while he knew he now lived alone, and that his bedroom didn’t exactly have a door, it was a habit that was hard to break. Being in his bedroom made him feel secure, he said, like Sam’s salt lines and sigils did for him.

He had this lovely habit of relating Sam’s experiences to his to help him feel normal, Sam thought with a smile. One that never went unappreciated.

Outside of their obvious personal issues, it was almost like they were a regular couple. Spencer (when he wasn’t on a case) had a normal 9-5 job, and Sam (when he wasn’t on call) was usually home by 7, 8 at the latest. This meant when he walked in the door, there was usually dinner waiting for him on the kitchen counter, a glass of wine and Spencer curled up on the couch, reading his thirteenth or twentieth book of the day and having rendered Sam’s tidying up moot in the process.

(In an attempt to clear out some of the clutter, Sam had suggested Spencer look into an e-reader, the mere suggestion of which had left Spencer so scandalized Sam swore never to bring it up again)

Such had been the case last night, and while Sam was usually the early riser who managed to get up, go for his morning run and shower before Spencer had so much as moved a muscle, today was different. Groaning softly, Sam pushed himself up onto his knees, his hair falling in front of his face as he attempted to drag himself out of bed. Drawn by the smell of coffee, he tossed back the covers, fishing for his boxers and slipping them on before biting the bullet and climbing onto his feet.

The apartment was warm and he smirked in self-satisfaction, feeling the hot air blowing through the vent on the wall. Since his conversation with Neil, Spencer mentioned his apartment was always a comfortable temperature, and Sam was happy to keep it that way. Especially if it meant he could walk into a sight like _this_ …

The kitchen looked like a tornado had just whipped through it, but that was to be expected when Spencer was doing the cooking. There were stacks of dirty bowls, two cutting boards, a plethora of knives and food scraps scattered about the counter. Spencer’s style of cooking ran the same way his mind did: with a million things on the go at once, scattered and incomprehensible to anyone but him, forming a tangled web that came together into something brilliant at the end. And whatever it was Spencer was cooking (which looked to be at least five different meals), judging by the smell, it was going to be delicious.

But despite what drew him downstairs, food was suddenly the last thing on Sam’s mind. Spencer was standing at the stove, his back to Sam and mismatched striped socks on his feet, in nothing but his boxers and a red hoodie Sam immediately recognized as his own. It was his old Stanford sweater, the same one he’d worn last night while they were marathoning The Wire (Spencer appreciated the abject authenticity of it) and House (Sam liked pointing out that, more often than not, it _was_ lupus). And while it was three sizes too big on him, hanging off Spencer’s slender frame and down to his mid-thigh, he looked so perfect in it that Sam decided he never wanted it back.

In fact, he didn’t want to move from his spot across the room, leaning against the bannister at the foot of the stairs and observing Spencer in his element. He was an excellent cook (“It’s just chemistry, Sam”) and he had no qualms about doing all the cooking for the both of them, thank god. Sam could barely toast bread, and if it were up to him, they would be ordering take out every night or eating cheese sandwiches. Again, Spencer talent stemmed from the two places he gleaned everything: from books, and his mother. Apparently, they used to cook together when she was lucid, trying out new recipes and attempting to recreate the signature dishes of world-famous chefs from memory and logic alone. And on her bad days, Spencer cooked out of necessity, being the only person in the house who was lucid enough to ensure they didn’t starve.

As such, Spencer’s repertoire of dishes was large and varied, from Julia Child’s duck l’orange to green bean casserole, and everything in between. Over the past few weeks Sam had come home to coq au vin, mac and cheese, latkes and pad Thai, and he’d discovered that the lengths Spencer would go to satisfy a craving were immeasurable, as his insistence on making tamales last Friday had illustrated.

If that bodega on 17th didn’t inexplicably have corn husks on hand at ten to midnight, Sam didn’t know what Spence might have done.

Sam didn’t want to take his eyes off him, not even for a second. Spencer was prodding at something in a frying pan, his leg jittering as he bounced the heel of his right foot up and down off the floor. He was humming something under his breath, while every now and then he would abandon the spatula for his mug, and the tune dropped off momentarily as he sipped his coffee. The sunlight that shone unhindered through the picture windows set Spencer’s hair aflame, gleaming across his silky curls and lighting them a beautiful golden brown, and his pale legs cast tall shadows across the floor.

The room was quiet, the air was still and Sam realized with a slow, creeping smile that felt at home here. He was beginning to feel as comfortable in this space as Spencer was, and for once, that didn’t frighten him. On the contrary, he was welcomed by Spencer’s very presence and for the first time in a long time, Sam was beginning to feel less like a nuisance, and more like he belonged.

“The staring is starting to get old,” Spencer called without turning to look at him, too busy flipping the eggs he had sizzling in the pan, “I don’t bite, I promise.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Sam said in protest, but he walked across the room anyways, wrapping his arms around Spencer’s waist and pulling his back to his chest. Resting his chin on Spencer’s shoulder, he glanced down at the scrambled eggs in the pan, and while his stomach gave a valiant grumble at the promise of food, Sam was much more inclined to busy himself with the young man in his arms.

“You hardly complain when I do,” Spencer said, his voice cracking a bit when Sam tilted his head to the side and sensually kissed his neck. He doubled down on the eggs, shifting them back and forth across the pan in an effort to stay focused, one that was entirely in vain as Sam began sucking on his earlobe, “ _Sam_.”

Nipping at the shell of his ear, Sam whispered, grinning when the caress of his breath sent a shiver down Spencer’s spine, “Keep cooking, don’t let me bother you.”

“I can’t—” Spencer stammered, his eyes slipping shut as he unconsciously leaned into Sam’s touch. The back of his head hit Sam’s shoulder and it startled him back into focus, though the heavy, glazed look in his eyes suggested he was having trouble staying there, “I can’t concentrate when you— _Sam_ , the eggs are going to burn.”

Sam reached past his hip and turned the burner off, “No, they’re not.”

Groaning in frustration, when Sam returned his hand to his hip, Spencer clasped his own overtop it, canting his hips back and moulding his back to Sam’s chest. He chuckled when Sam dropped his head forwards, his brow resting against Spencer’s shoulder, but Sam wasn’t about to be outdone. Using the hands he had on Spencer’s hips, he spun him around, catching the barest glimpse of Spencer’s shocked expression before Sam lifted him effortlessly and sat him on the counter next to the stove.

Spencer rolled his eyes in a huff, but he pulled Sam in regardless, wrapping his legs around his waist and tugging him closer. With Spencer’s arms around his neck, Sam let his gaze drop to his mouth and, overtaken with the urge to roll his full, pouty lower lip between his teeth, leaned forwards… only to be stopped in his tracks as Spencer snapped up a piece of bacon from a nearby plate and shoved it in his mouth in one bite.

“Really?” Sam asked, to which Spencer replied with a cheeky “Mrrh-hrmph” around his mouthful of bacon.

The grease staining his lips notwithstanding, Spencer looked entirely pleased with himself, smiling as best he could with his mouth full. He chewed slowly, deliberately locking eyes with Sam as he let him stew in his own desire, casually running the high arch of his foot up and down the side of Sam’s thigh.

But Sam was patient… or as patient as he could muster, kissing Spencer’s neck, his jaw, his cheeks, and anywhere else he could reach. He pecked at Spencer’s forehead and slobbered on the tip of his nose, the latter forcing Spencer to clap a hand over his mouth lest he sputter bits of half-chewed bacon in Sam’s face. And when Spencer finally swallowed he ducked forwards, tugging his hand away and kissing him heatedly, laving the taste of coffee and bacon from his sweet lips.

“You’re incorrigible,” Spencer reprimanded breathlessly, their mouths mere inches apart and he spoke in a whisper, his palms sliding over the firm muscle of Sam’s bare chest.

“Hardly,” Sam said, squeezing Spencer’s hips with both hands, and before he had time to think words he never anticipated he’d say so soon out loud tumbled past his lips in a poorly timed rush, “I’m just in love with you.”

Sam felt the wave of tension as it ran through Spencer’s body, his thighs stiffening around his hips and his spine going straight as a board. Spencer pulled his arms against his body and shuffled backwards on the counter, and though his heart ached to keep him close, to explain away his sudden confession, Sam reluctantly stepped back, his mouth opening and closing fruitlessly as he found himself at a loss for words.

He’d only spoken the truth, after all.

“You—” Spencer said abortively, his jaw tensing as he chewed nervously in the inside of his cheek. At least he was looking at him, Sam mused. That was a good sign, but the fear and panic in his eyes were doing nothing for Sam’s ego. He looked less like Sam just confessed that he loved him, and more like he’d cornered him in a dark alley demanding he hand over his wallet, and _damn_ but that hurt.

 _You put him on the spot_ , Sam reasoned. _You know he’s not good with processing his feelings. Give him a minute._

A minute tipped into two minutes, then four, then seven, all spent in static silence as Sam stood at attention between Spencer’s parted legs, and Spencer sat perched on the counter, so still that Sam was hardly sure he was breathing. He blinked fast, his eyes never left Sam’s and his forehead creased with an indiscernible emotion, like he himself was confounded by what he was feeling.

Sam was basically hovering over him, and after an inordinate amount of time had passed, he decided he should probably back off. Though he was no longer touching him, Sam still had him pinned to the counter, his hands balled into fists on the granite on either side of his thighs, and that certainly couldn’t be helping to settle his nerves. But when Sam dropped his hands to his sides and went to take a step back, Spencer startled him by snapping into motion, grabbing both of Sam’s arms and shouting a panicked, “No!”

Sam blinked owlishly at him, stammering noiselessly and freezing on the spot. “No,” Spencer repeated at a normal volume, his cheeks flushing beet red, “please, you don’t need to go.”

“I was only trying to give you space,” Sam explained, returning to his previous position, relief spilling over him at the sound of Spencer’s voice, “I wasn’t going to leave.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer blurted out, his shoulders bowing as he looked ashamedly down at his lap. If he’d been unreadable before, he was an open book now, shame, guilt and embarrassment wracking through his frame, crumpling him into a heartbreaking ball of awkward limbs and stiff muscles. He pulled his legs up, his socked feet slipping against the counter top and he snatched his hands back, curling his limbs in towards his chest defensively, and Sam’s heart ached at the sight of him, “I don’t know how…”

 _Fix it!_ His mind screamed at him, _fuck your feelings, just fix him!_ Acting on instinct Sam pulled Spencer towards him, still curled into a ball as he was, his knobby knees digging into Sam’s chest as he tucked Spencer’s head against his neck. The instant Sam’s arms looped over his shoulders, Spencer unfurled, choosing to wrap himself around Sam instead like an overgrown koala. It was as though he were trying to touch Sam with every inch of his body, his legs coiling around Sam’s hips to his thighs, and he even went as far as to loop his feet round the front of Sam’s knees. His fingers dug into Sam’s shoulders, his sweater-clad arms pressed from Sam’s back to his sides, and Spencer breathed shakily against his neck, fast and shallow, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

“It’s okay,” Sam murmured, stroking his hair soothingly, “you don’t need to say it back.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer repeated, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt, and Sam wished he could go back in time to before he stupidly opened his big mouth, not because he didn’t mean what he said, but because seeing Spencer like this was cutting him deeper than his bruised ego, “It’s not that I don’t, but I’ve never—I don’t know, I—”

Sam shushed him, kissing his temple and burying his own wounded pride. “You’ve never been more eloquent, doctor,” he teased, and though his sense of humor was strained at best, it still wrung a half-hearted chuckle from Spencer, who was relaxing more by the second. And when Spencer pulled back, that miserable frown still sat squarely on his lips, Sam blindly groped for a piece of bacon to prod at it with.

Spencer sputtered, opening his mouth to protest and Sam saw that as his chance, shoving the strip of bacon past his lips and jumping backwards, out of the way of Spencer’s flailing hands. Spencer spat it out into his palm, kicking his legs out one after the other at Sam as he retreated, crumpled in on himself as he laughed loudly. “Oh, it’s on,” was Sam’s only warning before Spencer leapt off the counter and darted straight for him, arms outstretched and ready to nab him around the waist.

Barely dodging out of the way, Sam sidestepped him and bolted around the island into the living room, hoping Spencer would give chase. But instead, Spencer ran in the opposite direction, tossing the mangled piece of bacon he still had clutched in hand towards the sink as he stepped up onto the sofa in one stride. He managed to cut Sam off on the other side, and before Sam could run in the opposite direction, Spencer jumped onto his back, his arms and legs winding around Sam so tight and so suddenly he lost his balance, sending them both toppling onto the couch.

Spencer yelped as Sam’s full weight plummeted onto his diaphragm, knocking the air out of him in a wheezing giggle. “Off!” he said, shoving at Sam’s back, “off, you’re so heavy!”

Laughing, Sam did as he was told. He sat up, tugged Spencer down by the hips so he was laying more securely on the sofa, and dropped back down, supporting himself with his elbows on either side of Spencer’s head. “Better?” he asked, glad that their impromptu romp had put a smile on Spencer’s face.

Spencer nodded enthusiastically, his eyes crinkling at the corners and he stretched his arms over his head, arching his back like a cat as he worked out the last vestiges of sleep from his limbs. He glanced over at the clock on the wall, “We’ve got an hour before we should leave.” His stomach gurgled, but when Sam tried to get up, to let him pad off to the kitchen to finish cooking his breakfast, Spencer stopped him in his tracks, lacing his fingers together behind Sam’s neck and turning his head back to face him.

With his thumbs stroking the side of Sam’s throat, Spencer tilted his chin up tentatively, brushing his lips against Sam’s chin, his nights worth of stubble prickling at Spencer’s sensitive skin. He ghosted over Sam’s lips, which parted in anticipation of a kiss that never came, and the barest skim of their flesh had Sam knotting his fingers in the upholstery, before he decided he’d much rather knot them in Spencer’s hair instead.

His eyes glazed over instantly, his eyelids fluttering as Sam tugged on his tresses and a throaty moan tearing from him with mouth. Suddenly flushed, Spencer writhed under the cover of Sam’s body, arching his back into the sensation, his jaw slack with an onslaught of pleasure and Sam found himself falling forwards, sealing his lips over Spencer’s with another well-timed twist of his hair.

Sam slipped his tongue past Spencer’s lips before he knew what he was doing. His brain checked out, abandoning any of the hurt feelings and worry that had seeped into their morning as he was taken aback (as he always was) by how soft Spencer’s lips were, how hot his mouth was, how sweet the sounds he made were when Sam pressed him into the sofa. He tasted like coffee and sugar, and his fingers dug into Sam’s neck, keeping him close as he rolled his whole body against him, moaning around his tongue.

Reaching between them, Sam slipped his fingers under the hem of his sweatshirt, the pad of his forefinger just brushing Spencer’s stomach, when Spencer wriggled to the side, sliding out from under him and climbing to his feet. He didn’t say a word, and Sam watched him curiously, sitting up on the sofa and leaning against the padded backrest as Spencer bit his lip coyly, standing to face Sam and not doing much else. That was until he reached under the hem of his sweater, looping his thumbs under the waistband of his purple boxer-briefs and tugging them down slowly, just low enough that he could shimmy them the rest of the way down his legs to the floor, his hard cock bobbing at attention.

Sam licked his lips and followed suit, lifting his hips so he could slide his boxers down around his ankles without standing up, and kicking them off his feet, all without taking his gaze from the man in front of him. He was hard as iron, and his cock throbbed valiantly as he watched Spencer grab his sweater ( _his_ sweater, Sam’s lizard-brain gleefully reminded him) by the hem and tugged upwards, his long, pale torso stretching up with his arms. He pulled it off, only breaking their eye contact when he needed to tug it past his head, and when Spencer was free, dropping it to the ground at the same time as he stepped out of his boxers, Sam’s breath caught in his throat.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, wrapping a loose fist around his erection and stroking purposefully, captivated as Spencer climbed into his lap, one knee at a time. The morning light silhouetted him from behind and his skin glowed angelically as he settled into Sam’s lap, his toes curling under Sam’s thighs. He was amazed he was allowed to touch this person, that Spencer wanted to touch him back. He was immaculate, responsive, giving and he was _Sam’s_ , rocking naked in his lap like he was always meant to be there. Sam wondered idly if that amazement, that sense of incredulity that Spencer wanted to be with him would ever fade, or if he would wake up every morning for the rest of his life in awe that out of all the people in the world, this brilliant man chose _him_.

“Thank you,” Spencer murmured against his lips.

When they kissed again, it was like throwing gasoline on a bonfire, Sam’s stomach swooping in heady anticipation as his hands surged up to tow Spencer down by his shoulders, to touch every inch of his skin. He wanted to drown in the scent of him, in the sound of his voice as Sam’s tongue drew a path from his lips to his jaw, his breath heaving against his collarbone before he sealed his lips around Spencer’s nipple. He caught his hips as Spencer bucked upwards, the hands in his hair keeping Sam right where he was, though he certainly wasn’t planning on going anywhere. “What about breakfast?” he asked, resting his forehead against Spencer’s sternum so he could watch his muscles twitch as Sam teased his fingers across Spencer’s abdomen.

The back of his hand bumped Spencer’s erection and he hissed, cupping Sam’s cheeks and tilting his head back so he could say, “Fuck breakfast,” before plundering Sam’s mouth once more. He rocked his hips down against Sam’s, grinding against his abs as Sam’s cock slipped between his cheeks, curving perfectly against the swell of his rear. “It can always be dinner,” he amended with a cheeky grin.

“Forever thinking,” Sam said, watching Spencer’s expression crumple in bliss as he pressed his cock against Spencer’s ass with one hand, and wrapped the other around Spencer’s weeping erection. “I meant what I said,” he added, sweeping the pad of his thumb over the head of Spencer’s cock, spreading precome across the crown and feeling it throb heavily in his hand, “You don’t need to say it back, but I do love you.”

“I know,” Spencer said, his eyes hazy with arousal as he kissed the tip of Sam’s nose, and an expression far too sweet for what they were doing came over his face as he repeated, more forcefully this time, “thank you.”

**February 1 st @ 4pm**

They never got a chance to have their breakfast for dinner, as the BAU was called on a case in rural Georgia later that day.


	2. Organization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crud, what a hiatus! Sorry for the delay folks, but I got married, yay!!! 
> 
> I hope this chapter makes up for the long wait, and don't forget to tell me what you think ;)
> 
> xoxo Jane Doh

**February 3 rd @ 12am**

The store was so cold that JJ could hardly feel her fingers as she sifted through the display of herbs in front of her. A light mist fell over the vegetables in the stand, shimmering in damp little droplets against her bare hands as she hummed along to the nondescript slow jams they were playing in the vacant grocers. It was late, getting close to midnight and the staff on duty consisted of one stock boy and a cashier who was watching her closely, impatiently waiting for her to pick what she needed and leave so they could close up.

She’d just returned from a case in New Orleans to an empty fridge and a pissed off cat, and after spending a week eating shitty take out and police department provided continental breakfast, she’d been craving something green. Too late to head to her normal grocery story, she decided to hit up the fancy, organic shop down the road from her apartment, the one that was a little too ritzy for her tastes normally, but open much later. Five bucks for a head of lettuce, especially one that was only about the size of a mango seemed like a rip off to her. But she was starving, and seriously beginning to worry about scurvy, so she threw it in her basket.

Meandering over to the peppers, she heard the door chime, precluded by the cashiers long suffering sigh. “Andrew!” they yelled, stomping over to the stock boy who looked up at them with a start, “I thought you said you locked the door!”

“I—” Andrew (evidently) stammered, “I thought I did…”

“Are you closed? I’m so sorry, I can leave.”

Well, that voice sounded vaguely familiar. JJ frowned thoughtfully and looked over her shoulder, her grip on the bell pepper in her hand growing tighter when she recognized the towering behemoth of a man standing next to the roughage.

“No, that’s alright,” the cashier said, hurrying to lock the door, “You two are already in here. You may as well finish up.”

Sam nodded respectfully, and went back to perusing the swiss chard without another word. He’d either not noticed JJ or he was doing a great job at ignoring her, and though she was suddenly thrilled at the chance to interact with Spence’s elusive boyfriend, she wasn’t sure if she should. Was he as private as Spencer was? Would he be upset if she tried to talk to him? Was he shy? What was the protocol, she wondered, for being polite to your best friend’s secret partner, when your best friend hadn’t technically introduced you yet?

 _Oh, just say hello to him, Jayje_.

She shivered, an odd chill burrowing under her skin as she trundled her shopping basket over to Sam and tapped him on the shoulder. Though she needed to extend her arm straight up to reach him, when Sam jolted with a gasp she stifled a giggle, charmed to see such a commanding, intimidating man startled by little her. “Hi, Sam,” she said, smiling amicably and offering him her hand, “fancy meeting you here.”

“JJ,” he stammered, dropping the bundle of spinach he’d been inspecting and shaking her hand, his skin damp and cold, “hi! Hello, wow. I didn’t think I’d run into anyone this time of night.”

“Just got off a case,” JJ said, rubbing her palms together when she had her hand back. Jesus, it was cold in there.

“I figured,” Sam smiled, dimples pinning his cheeks, “Spence gave me a call saying he got back a few hours ago. How was New Orleans?”

She waved him off. “Same old. Someone did something terrible, we caught him, case closed. Didn’t even manage to leave the field office this time. What are you doing here?” she asked, “Shouldn’t you be catching up with him?”

“That’s where I’m headed,” Sam said, tossing a bundle of leafy greens in his basket, “Just handed off my patients to the night shift, and I promised I’d grab something for dinner.”

“Midnight dinners all around.”

“Seems that way.”

Wrapping her coat tighter around her shoulders, JJ glanced down at the contents of Sam’s basket. “Kale, spinach and swiss chard,” she said, grinning, “is Spence even gonna eat any of that?”

Looking sharply down at the basket, then back up to her face, Sam seemed lost for a moment, his brow furrowing in concern, and JJ worried he thought she was really railing him on his grocery choices. But he caught on quick, and the bashful smile he graced her with, his chin to his chest and a flush high on his cheeks, was unbelievably endearing. “I make these smoothies in the mornings, now that I can afford fresh food,” he said, hefting his basket, “and aside from some peanut butter, this is basically all that’s in it. They’re for after my runs, and they’re really good… well, good _for_ you. Spence thinks I hoodwinked him, though.”

JJ frowned, “How so?”

“When we started dating, and I was still an intern, I lived on cafeteria take out and pizza.” Sam chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets and ducking down to her level, his shoulders rounding so she wouldn’t need to stare up at such a sharp angle, “And while Spencer cooks, he tends to cook what he likes, not caring about what it does to his health.”

“And yet, he’s still thin as a twig,” JJ said, dropping her basket to the ground so she could run her hands up and down her arms. Jesus, it was so fucking cold.

The sound of her basket clattering against the tiles was louder than she anticipated, and she hurriedly glanced at the cashier to apologize for the noise, but curiously, for someone so nosy, they didn’t even flinch. As a matter of fact, neither did Sam. No one reacted as she furiously tried to work some heat into her arms, her thin blazer not meant to protect her from the chill night air.

Even as she began blowing air into her palms, her breath billowing up towards her face in a pale cloud, Sam didn’t comment on it. He didn’t seem to notice. “Exactly,” Sam said, continuing with his story as though the store wasn’t freezing, as if the door wasn’t creaking open and shut on its hinges, swaying with the wind, “but if I ate like that? Well it wouldn’t be good. So, I started making these in the mornings, and I think I managed to get him to take a sip once.”

“And?” she urged, despite her teeth chattering.

“And he spit it in the sink, handed me back the cup and went to brush his teeth, again.”

JJ laughed, “Of course! No one ever believes me when I tell them he’s a secret drama queen!”

“He can be,” Sam said with a grin, throwing a few heads of lettuce in his basket, and if he said anything after that, JJ didn’t hear it. She could see his lips moving, and she strained to listen, but instead of his rolling, relaxing timbre, all she heard was a menacing growl, one that certainly didn’t come from him.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder and looking for the source of the noise. Had someone let a dog inside? For all their insistence on locking the door, the cashier seemed perfectly content now to just let it swing open, and anything could have come inside. It could be a coyote, too. Or a mountain lion… did they frequent these parts? She didn’t know. Spence would have known.

Sam ignored her, or didn’t hear her, which was just as well. She could no longer hear him over the sirens, growing in volume as they roared closer to where she sat, curled up against the wall of the barn with her knees pulled to her chest. “Sam,” she whispered harshly, reaching out to grab the sleeve of his jacket, but her fingers closed around nothing but air, moving through the illusion as the grocery store went dark, falling away. The dulcet jazz over the speakers, the hot-tempered cashier and Sam’s good-natured smile were gone, and in their place was a dirty old barn, the February chill and the thick, tinny stench of blood.

Her gun was a reassuring weight in her hand, still warm. Briefly in control of her faculties, JJ fumbled with her belt, grabbing another magazine to swap for her emptied clip, her fingers frozen and clumsy. Her heart rattled against her ribs, and there was a distinct taste of blood in her throat. There was an odd sound, too, like air being forced through a too tight space, one she dazedly realized was coming from _her._ She was breathing tightly, panic having gripped her by the esophagus, and was refusing to let go.

Where was she?

 _Georgia_. Climbing to her feet, her legs trembled unsteadily, struggling to support her frame. Be it the cold or a lack of oxygen making it to her brain JJ needed to lean against the wall of the barn, using all of her energy to heft her pistol, her finger hovering on the trigger, discipline be damned.

She was in Hankel’s barn. Hankel the suspect, supposedly. But it became “Hankel’s the unsub!” Hadn’t that been what Spence had whispered to her, before they gave chase? Before they cornered him in the barn without back up, splitting up?

Why did they split up?

She was suddenly aware of a burning pain in her forearm, and a hot trail of moisture running down her wrist, pooling in her palm like a nervous sweat. She’d been hurt… bitten. Bitten by what?

The growl came back, quieter and she kicked off the wall, her knees shaking, her gun held aloft. It was so dark, pitch black inside the barn, and the only light she was afforded was the periodic flashing of red and blue, sirens blaring down the drive. Another growl, louder this time, had her turning on a dime, her breath gasping, punched from her lungs with every hammer of her heart, and her head felt heavy, her vision fading.

She could see the grocery store again, though this time it was empty and just as dark as the barn. Sam was gone, the clerk was gone, and it no longer hummed with electric light. The growling was still there, getting closer, ringing in her ear as she spun towards the door, watching down the barrel of her gun as it swung open, and she was shouting, “FBI! Get down! Get down, now!”

JJ thought she heard her name, but it was buried under the howling, angry braying of the dogs whose corpses littered the barn, illuminated now that the door stood wide. She couldn’t focus, her vision clipping from dead dog to dead dog, ones she’d killed, the wounds from her bullets still sluggishly oozing onto the hay covered floor. If she looked just a little to her left, she’d see the mattress, stained through with blood and viscera, two chains hanging limply from the walls and so she purposely kept her back to it, squinting against the flashlights now waving in her face as she continued to scream, “FBI!”

“JJ!”

She was certain she heard her name this time, and a face (a human face) emerged from the blinding wall of lights towards her. “No!” She cried, backing up, her hands shaking so hard around her weapon she was amazed she hadn’t misfired, “No, no, no, get back! _Get back!”_

But whoever was approaching was quick, and JJ was so cold that she failed to right herself when they sidestepped the muzzle of her weapon. An arm came down onto her shoulder, the other on top of her gun and she didn’t have the strength to fight as hey maneuvered it to the ground. “JJ, it’s me,” a familiar voice told her, shaking her shoulders, “it’s Prentiss. Morgan’s here too.”

“I didn’t—” JJ stammered, dropping her gaze to the ground and, realizing where she was standing, peeled the heel of her boot from a soggy, squelching puddle of blood. Her face felt hot and her stomach clenched uncomfortably, embarrassment ripping through her like tidal wave. “I didn’t mean to kill them,” she explained, though Prentiss looked at her curiously, as if she hadn’t been thinking how cowardly JJ had been, slaughtering three poor dogs, “I had to. I _had_ to—they ripped her to shreds.”

“JJ, it’s okay—”

“There’s nothing left of her,” she said, her spine stiffening as she remembered the grizzly sight right behind her, littering the mattress, “they ate every last—”

“JJ!” Prentiss shook her harshly, forcing JJ to face her. At that moment, Morgan lowered his flashlight and JJ could see their faces; drawn, heavy and worried. “JJ,” Prentiss repeated, her steady voice contradicting the anxiety drawn into the lines of her forehead, “Where is Reid?”

“What?” JJ asked. It was like she was submerged in jelly, and everything outside of her, words, touch, images, it all needed to struggle to reach her, “He’s not with you?”

“No,” Prentiss said sternly, “so, where is he?”

“B-behind the barn,” JJ said, stumbling on her words and jerking away from Prentiss in shock when Morgan sprinted out of the barn, his footfalls disappearing around the building and off into the distance. Prentiss took in the carnage surrounding them, while JJ just stared at the empty spot he left at the door. “We split up,” she said, her voice a whisper, her breathing still strained, and were it not for the sound of her blazer rustling, she’d never have noticed Prentiss soothingly stroking her arm, “I know we shouldn’t have, but we didn’t know—” she gripped Prentiss’ arm hard, “Hankel is the unsub.”

“We know,” Prentiss said, tugging on her sleeves gently, “Let’s get you patched up, okay? Or at least get you out of here.”

JJ dug in her heels, stopping Prentiss in her tracks. “What about Reid?” she asked, “We need to find him! Sam—oh God, what am I supposed to tell Sam?”

Prentiss set her jaw firmly, trying to exude a confidence that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “We’ll find him.”

 

**10am**

JJ was staring, again. Morgan could feel her eyes on him, burrowing into his back whenever it was turned, and it was starting to get under his skin. Since they’d set up Hankel’s home as a field office and got to work, she’d been quietly sneaking glances at him, her attention pulled from what she should be focusing on (finding Reid) to him every other second. It was like she had suddenly developed the attention span of a goldfish.

Turning around, Morgan was hoping to catch her by surprise, but she proved too quick for him. By the time he’d made a full rotation, she was already back to work, tacking photos and sheaves of notebook paper up on the cork board.

He knew where her fascination with him had come from, and that only helped to stoke his ire. When she mentioned that her and Reid split up while pursuing Hankel, Morgan’s heart dropped into his stomach, and it hadn’t come up since. They were both so green, they had little to no field experience and splitting up was never the right call—there was a reason they were always dispatched in teams.

He was trying not to blame her for Reid’s capture. She would never have done something to put Reid in harms way, and from the cow eyes she kept shooting him, he knew that her guilt was eating her alive already and didn’t need his help. He also knew that, given the right circumstances, Reid was as stubborn as a bull, and if he’d set his mind to splitting up and surrounding Hankel, there was no way JJ could have convinced him otherwise, especially not when their adrenaline was pumping, and tensions were running high. Blaming her wasn’t just irrational, it was unfair.

But when he happened upon that clearing of crumpled cornstalks out in the farm fields, blood on the ground dripping from the shovel Hankel had used to knock poor Reid unconscious? All sense of rationality flew out the window. Since then, all he could think about was the kid, a sluggishly bleeding gash in his temple, tied up in a rat hole somewhere and held captive by serial murderer amid a psychotic break. Who knows what Hankel had planned for him? What he was doing to him, right that very second? And because he couldn’t banish those unwelcome thoughts from the forefront of his mind, he couldn’t stop the anger from bubbling just beneath the surface, swelling, snarling at JJ and held back only by his strength of will, and his desire to get Reid home alive.

To fight now would be counterintuitive, and that was the only thing saving her from his fury.

Morgan turned back to the journal he was flipping through, gritting his teeth as he heard JJ’s heels grind against the splintered wooden floor, her gaze burning into the back of his head once more.

The front door creaked open, followed by the clicking of Garcia’s shoes and Hotch’s somber instructions as he led her to Hankel’s computer. It was a mess in there, a pile of monitors, take out containers and wires from the floor to the ceiling, and as Garcia looked through the doorway into the abyss she would be working from, her shoulders slumped in anticipatory defeat. “Geez, you guys couldn’t have vacuumed first?” she grumbled, dutifully taking her seat at the keyboard and, producing a napkin from her coat pocket, began wiping some of the caked-on grime off the desk.

“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch said, ignoring her gripe. He clapped a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, a comforting gesture so subtle that if Morgan hadn’t been looking, he’d have missed it. Garcia deflated, relaxing into her borrowed office chair and soon enough, the main floor of the house was filled with the sound of her fingers clacking off the keys.

Returning to the kitchen, Hotch took a cursory glance around the room, “Nothing new since I left?”

Morgan shrugged, flipping the page of the journal he was reading. “The good thing is, the guy documented practically every second of his life. The bad news is,” he waved a hand across the table to the thirty-seven others, “we're still un-piling.”

“From the looks of it, he hasn't left this place in years,” Prentiss said, sitting down with a heavy sigh.

She looked as exhausted as the rest of them. Even Gideon, who was stony even in the face of the worst adversity, looked just shy of distraught, a pencil caught between his teeth as he studied every facet of the kitchen, trying to suss out some clue that would lead them to Reid.

“Well,” Hotch said, distinctly aware of their dip in morale, “let’s keep at it. The sooner we find Hankel, the sooner we get Reid home, safe and sound.”

Prentiss huffed, a wry smile tugging at her lips and when Morgan, clearly missing the humor in their situation, looked at her curiously, she explained, “I lost a bet to him over the original run time of Solaris; I still owe him twenty dollars.”

An odd hush fell over the already quiet space, as even the wind buffeting the walls of the house seemed to die down. JJ was deathly silent, her shoulders drawn up to her ears as she stood frozen in front of the corkboard, holding her breath. Morgan’s heart, still not quite where it should be, damn near stopped, and Hotch’s ever present sternness fell just a fraction, his concern bleeding through the cracks.

Gideon looked up from a kettle he’d been turning over in his hands and said, “You’ll pay him back.”

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed. Yeah, she’d get Reid his twenty dollars, JJ would find her forgiveness and Morgan— well, Morgan figured he’d get the chance to talk to Reid again.

The last time they spoke, they hadn’t parted on the greatest of terms.

_February 1 st @ 5pm – The Jet_

_A smile on her face bright enough to light the entirety of a major metropolitan city, JJ glided past Hotch and Gideon on her way to her window seat, oblivious to Morgan as he watched her every step of the way. They’d been on route to Georgia for an hour, and for half that hour, Reid had been behind the flight attendants partition, talking to someone on the phone. It was the same song and dance he’d pulled whenever they got an out-of-nowhere case for the past few months, but this was the first time someone had been back there with him while he was talking._

_He didn’t mean to be so nosy, but this was_ Reid _. The kid went red as a tomato anytime Morgan even mentioned one of his dates, and whenever he offered to set him up with one of his friends, Reid fled the scene faster than a burglar. And while Reid attested that he wasn’t seeing anyone, Morgan knew the signs. He was all smiles lately, never stayed late at work, and was putting more care into how he looked than Morgan had ever seen before. Couple that with the mysterious gifts he’d been getting (and honestly, of course Reid would be dating a woman who would send him books on a weekly basis) and the private phone calls, and Morgan would stake his life on Reid having a girlfriend._

_He couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t telling him about it, though. They were close as could be, and while Morgan might rag on him sometimes, it was always out of love. The kid was like the little brother he never had, and while he was happy that he’d found someone, he couldn’t help but feel a sting at being left out in the dark. Especially when JJ clearly knew the deets._

_She wasn’t talking, but he knew that she knew about Reid’s girlfriend. Maybe she hadn’t met her yet, but she knew. Reid had stolen her away for one too many secret conversations, and whenever Morgan or Prentiss joked about setting Reid up with a nice girl, she clammed up quick. JJ was no poker player, and her tells were as loud as a forty-foot billboard… which begged the question: if Reid was looking for a confidant, then why her?_

_Why not him? Morgan thought grumpily. It was petty and childish, and he couldn’t help it. He thought they were close, so why not him?_

_So, when JJ came back from making herself a tea, right on the other side of the flight attendants quarters, Morgan just couldn’t help himself. He could see Reid pacing behind the thin curtain that divided them, and JJ had clearly been eavesdropping, if how long it had taken her to stir in her sugar was any indication. He was bolstered by hurt feelings, and the second her butt hit her chair, Morgan leaned forwards across the table that separated their seats and asked, “Pretty boy on the phone with his girl again?”_

_JJ fought to remain impassive, despite her surprise. She crossed her legs, sipped her tea and, if the pinched expression on her face was any indication, ignored the scalding burn to her tongue as she asked, “How should I know?”_

_Prentiss, who had been sitting next to Morgan with her nose in a book this whole time, leapt into the conversation with a snap of her fingers, pointing triumphantly across the table, “Ah-ha! She didn’t ask what girl!”_

_Doubling down on this offensive, Morgan asked, “Have you met her?”_

_JJ decided to play dumb. “Who?”_

_“Reid’s girlfriend.” Morgan said, not missing a beat._

_“Reid has a girlfriend?”_

_Throwing his hands out to his sides, Morgan cried exasperatedly, “Of course he’s got a girlfriend! Haven’t you noticed he’s been taking his paperwork home every night, despite his repeated insistence he can’t get any work done there? Or that he’s always out the door by six at the latest, even though up until a few months ago he would stay till the cleaners kicked him out?”_

_Prentiss added, “And whenever he_ does _need to stay late, or we get a case, suddenly he’s ‘got to make a call.’”_

_“He actually has somewhere to be on weekends now.”_

_“Yeah!” Her long black hair swishing over her shoulders as she glanced back and forth between JJ and Morgan, Prentiss said, “He hasn’t told us his weekend plans in months. He just dodges the question.”_

_JJ pursed her lips, refusing to budge, though now Morgan caught a glimmer of doubt under her pensive expression. She must have thought Reid was been doing a great job of hiding his relationship, but obviously, keeping a secret from a group of nosy profilers was as futile as hiding a bone from a dog: they’d sniff it out eventually. But whatever Reid had bought her silence with must have been big, because no matter how annoying Morgan and Prentiss got, she wasn’t about to break. She crossed her arms and tilter her chin up defiantly, stating, “I don’t see how that points to him having a girlfriend.”_

_And of course, that was the moment Spencer decided to come back from his conspicuous phone call. “Who’s got a girlfriend?” he asked, frowning as he took his seat next to JJ._

_Not pulling any punches, Morgan said simply, “You.”_

_“Apparently,” JJ added, immediately distancing herself from Morgan and Prentiss’ meddlesomeness._

_But Reid just shrugged nonchalantly, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”_

_Prentiss frowned, “What about that doctor you went on a date with? Sam?”_

_“It was only one date,” he answered, cool as a cucumber, and even JJ seemed tempted to worry about how easily he’d slipped into that lie, were she not so impressed by his candor._

_“I don’t believe that for a second!” Morgan said sternly. He was trying to put up a front that he was only teasing, but underneath there was a sour twinge of hurt feelings, one he could hear in his own voice when he asked, “Who you hiding from us, man?”_

_Whether Reid had an answer for him or not, Hotch had chosen that moment to cut in. “That’s enough,” he said, closing the case file in his hand and slapping it down on his lap, with the air of a disappointed schoolteacher, “Let’s all remember that this is a workplace, even at 35,000 feet in the air.”_

_“Actually,” Reid said, shuffling in his seat and holding up his hands excitably, gearing up for a monologue, “a smaller jet like this one, especially owned and chartered by a federal organization, could reach heights of around 45,000 feet, though most would cruise at 41,000. This would keep them out of the most congested areas of the sky and afford the most direct routes. In fact, in 2001, the air traffic control advisory committee reported—”_

_All five of them breathed in unison when the laptop chimed, signaling a call from Garcia. “Saved by the bell,” Morgan said, and Reid frowned, worrying his lower lip as though he were frustrated at having been cut off. But the quick glance he shot JJ said different. He looked relieved, and when he was certain the team’s attention of focused squarely on Garcia, he mouthed a sincere ‘thank you.’_

_As if Morgan needed another clue to add to his scads of evidence. Reid was lying, and damn it, he wanted to know why._

Now, sitting at a serial killers table, pouring over his thoughts scrawled into dozens of soiled notebooks, Morgan clung to Gideon’s assertion that he’d get the chance. Maybe not to grill him on his relationships, or to talk to him about how much his hiding was hurting him, but to let him know it was okay. That he understood how private a person he was, and wanted to respect that, but that he also wanted to be a part of his life outside of work, if Reid was comfortable with that. He wanted to tell him he cared about him, that he was scared for him. That he thought the kid was a freaking idiot for going off on his own, no matter what his IQ was.

He wanted to get him home safe, so Reid could see his girlfriend, whoever they might be. And then maybe someday, Morgan might get to meet her. Or hear of her. But first, they needed to find him.

Morgan pushed off his chair and onto his feet, the slap of his hands off the table ricocheting through the tense forms of his teammates huddled around the room. “I’m gonna get Garcia set up,” he said, sliding the book he’d been reading over to JJ, “I need a break, I can’t read this shit anymore.”

“Of course,” Hotch said, frowning. Gideon was staring at him too, but they must have come to the same conclusion. He wasn’t about to snap or go off the deep end on them, so they returned to their individual tasks quickly, leaving Morgan to quietly slip out of the room.

“Hey baby girl,” he said, walking up behind Garcia and placing his hands on her shoulders, “what do you got so far?”

“Right out of the gate,” she looked up at him, one of her furry tailed pens stuck between her teeth, “the guy's self-taught. His mainframe is totally idiosyncratic, but it's pretty brilliant.”

“Talk to me about what this son of a bitch watches online.” Morgan pulled up a chair, waving a disdainful hand at the wall of monitors in front of them, “What the hell is all of this?

“It's tame stuff— video games, software, sports. Seriously, if I had to guess who this system belongs to,” Garcia shrugged her shoulders, snapping the pen from her lips and worrying it between her fingers, “I would say a crazy smart high-school kid.”

Morgan frowned, “That doesn't make any sense.”

“Well, that's what I've got.”

“No, that can’t be it,” he slid his chair closer, peering at the computer screens as though there was even a possibility he could spot what was missing, “A mission-based killer like Hankel would need constant reassurance- religious manifesto, violent images, something.”

“Nothing, baby,” Garcia said sadly, “nothing.”

There had to be more… no way this guy was deleting his life’s work. “What about the mpegs of the murders he posted on-line?” he asked, “Does he sit and watch those over and over?”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but Garcia yielded, searching through Hankel’s database again. “Wait a minute,” she said, squinting through her spectacles, “ok, that's weird.”

“What?” Morgan perked up, glancing fruitlessly at the screen again, despite the fact it was basically another language to him, “Talk to me.”

“They're not even here. All I have is a site he set up once he commandeered people's webcams, and he keeps a running clock, and at a certain point, each one is bookmarked with a different heading.” She clicked her mouse a few times, and pointed at the screen, her perfectly manicured fingernail tracing a line of text as she read, “’Adulterer, liar, thief.’”

“This guy sits here for days and just watches these people,” Morgan murmured, “waiting for them to commit a sin.”

Garcia swiveled in her seat, her brows upturned with worry as she attested, “But Reid’s completely innocent.”

He wished he could believe that, but as he watched the various crime scene videos play out on the screens in front of him, he knew it was a fool’s hope. “If you dig deep enough on any of us, we all have our sins,” Morgan said, grabbing her hand in some small show of comfort, “including Reid.”

 

**8pm**

Though the water pouring from the faucet in Hankel’s bathroom was warm, JJ’s hands still shook as she washed them, her fingers pale in comparison to her arms. She hadn’t managed to work any colour back into them, despite spending the day indoors, and she was beginning to think it had nothing to do with the cold weather.

She knew the physiological symptoms of shock, and even if she didn’t, the fact she’d been seeing things back in the barn should’ve been evidence enough that something was wrong. She should have been sleeping then, taking Hotch and Gideon up on their suggestions to rest, but she couldn’t. Drying her hands-on a nearby towel, she glanced up at herself in the mirror and despised who she saw. She looked physically exhausted, emotionally drained and she hated that while Reid was being held captive somewhere, hurt and alone, she couldn’t manage to get her shit together.

She was attacked by some dogs, big deal. All she got for her trouble was a bite to the forearm and a good scare, but Reid? They didn’t even know where he was, and he was certainly injured. There’d been blood at the scene, and while Reid wasn’t a big guy, he had close combat training—he’d have to be physically subdued to be captured. God, they didn’t even know if he was alive.

 _No_. JJ clapped her hands over her eyes, rubbing harshly as she tried to banish that unwelcome thought. Spence was alive; he had to be. Hankel hadn’t broadcasted another video, and he needed confirmation of his crimes.

“Get it together,” she whispered harshly, pulling her hair back from her forehead and taking a deep breath in through her nose. They needed all hands-on deck to find Spence, and she refused to take a back seat now, when all the information they needed to do so hidden within the walls of this house. She just needed to buckle down and focus, and—

A chain clinked behind her, and her eyes flew open wide.

It had to have come from the hall. There was nothing (no one) in the bathroom with her, and who knows what weird shit Tobias had hanging in his house. It was probably just a gust of wind rattling through a rosemary, or something.

But despite her rationalization, her body refused to cooperate. Her throat seized up, and no matter how hard she tried to take a deep, chest filling breath she couldn’t manage more than a strained little wheeze, like the whistle of a tea kettle. Her pupils blew wide, and she watched in morbid fascination as her reflection in the mirror grew pale, the colour draining from her countenance like water from a tank.

Her hands shook wildly and her knees buckled, forcing her to catch herself on the rim of the basin, the faucet still spurting hot water into the sink, starting to steam. And over the sound of water running through the pipes, her tea kettle breathing and her teammates voices downstairs, she picked up an unmistakable, animalistic growl. It was low, an airy noise that she had to strain her ears to hear, but it was there, and it was right behind her.

She couldn’t wrangle the courage to turn around, but she had to know. Gritting her teeth as she shifted her gaze in the mirror just over her trembling shoulders, she gasped as best she could when she locked eyes with a mangy looking dog, it’s yellow eyes and patchy grey fur belying its mongrel pedigree. It pulled its lips back and growled again, spittle flying from between its bared teeth, its eyes wide and pupils pointed like daggers.

Her arm throbbed at the memory of its bite, and she gagged as she tried to exhale, her throat so tight she felt she was breathing through a straw. As much as she wanted to convince herself it was all in her head, that she was just seeing things, that she’d killed them all and she really needed to go lie down, JJ couldn’t take her eyes off the dog for an instant, a part of her stress-addled brain telling her she _didn’t know that_. Hankel could have had more dogs somewhere, right? They could have missed them in the sweep of the house, _right_?

She laughed hysterically, a high-pitched spat of sound, as she thought for a moment that this dog _knew_ what she’d done to the others and had sought her out personally. Revenge for its siblings. And in that moment, it was both the stupidest and most frightening truth she’d ever known.

Groping blindly beside her, the rough grip of her gun against her fingers sparked the feeling of all-encompassing relief.

That was until she spun around to find Emily, standing terrified in the bathroom doorway, her hands in the air.

"Hey, hey, hey!” she said, and JJ immediately lowered her gun to the ground, her face heating with shame as Emily cautiously stepped into the bathroom, “JJ, it's me.” Carefully taking the gun from JJ’s hands like she’d done yesterday, Emily placed it on the sink’s edge, turning off the water before asking, “Are you all right?”

“Uh... yeah,” JJ stammered, her voice cracking as she forced it out. Her heart still hammered in her chest, and she coughed into her fist to clear the lump from her throat, “I'm sorry. You scared me.”

“I'm sorry,” Emily echoed. She was frowning, glancing down at JJ’s bandaged forearm as though she knew what JJ was thinking, how she was feeling. As if she could understand the half of it. “I'm talking tomorrow morning to some guy who knew Hankel from narcotics anonymous,” she said, and the intensity of her stare made JJ feel like she was ten-years-old again, being placated by her mother, “why don't you come with me, get out of the house?”

 _She’s just trying to help_ , JJ rationalized. And in all honestly, leaving the property would probably do her some good. She refused to go back to the hotel, but if she could get out for just a little bit, and still be helping the team, then she could back down on that, at least. “Ok,” she said, less than enthused by the overtly chipper “great!” Emily tossed her in return.

And JJ couldn’t keep from asking, “Emily.”

“Yeah?”

“How come none of this gets to you?”

Emily froze, halfway out of the bathroom, “What do you mean?”

“You came off a desk job. Now suddenly you're in the field surrounded by mutilated bodies, and...” JJ gestured between the two of them helplessly, “You don't even flinch.”

The implicit distinction was there, unspoken between them. It filled the air around them like stagnant water, and when Emily said “I guess I compartmentalize better than most people,” they both knew what she meant: _“I don’t know Reid as well as you.”_

Emily wasn’t as close to this, because even though she cared for Reid, even liked him a good deal, she wasn’t his best friend. His closest friend, who’d listened to his secrets, his fears and his fondness, and who’d hidden in a barn while he was being beaten and dragged from a cornfield by an unsub.

As though it had never left, JJ’s guilt was back with a vengeance, crushing her under its weight.

_February 1st @ 5:30pm – The Jet_

_Reid settled down with JJ, following Hotch’s directive to help her sort through the victimology. He seemed unperturbed on the surface, despite the line of questioning Morgan had just subjected him to, but she knew better than to judge what he was feeling solely on what he let slip through his carefully sculpted demeanor. Looking around to make sure no one was paying attention, JJ leaned in towards Spencer as he began spreading out the crime scene photos, whispering so only he could hear, “I’m sorry about Emily and Morgan. I tried to get them off topic before you came back.”_

_Shrugging his shoulders noncommittally, Spencer replied, “It’s fine. I’m sorry you were put in that position at all.”_

_Of course he was. “Don’t be,” JJ told him, wrapping her fingers around on his wrist where it lay on the table, “You’re my friend, Spence. If you’re not ready for people to know, then your secret is safe with me.”_

_He smiled softly, and the tightness in her chest unravelled, sufficiently convinced he wasn’t secretly upset, “Thank you.”_

_She patted his wrist before handing him his case file. “I would limit your phone calls to a more… soundproof location next time, though.”_

_In all her life she’d never seen a person go so red, so fast. He tried to hide it by stuffing his face behind his file, but it was impossible to hide his embarrassed flush as it spread from the tips of his ears down to his collar. “You heard?” he squeaked._

_“I didn’t mean to, but I was making myself a tea and you were right there…” As she spoke, he got even quieter, “Oh, c’mon. It’s not like you said anything incriminating. It was actually kind of sweet; Sam’s been staying over a lot, has he?”_

_Spencer nodded, his hair bobbing over the top of his file. “He just started his residency, so his schedule is more reliable. And since we’ve not had any cases in a few weeks, he’s been at my place almost every night.”_

_“Making up for lost time?”_

_She could hear the smile in his voice, though she still couldn’t see his face, “It’s been nice.”_

_“I bet.” Reaching across the table, she tugged the folder from his hands and placed it on the table, “So, things are getting serious, then?”_

_Spencer bit his lip. He wanted to say something about that, but instead he distracted himself by going back to the files._

_JJ sighed. She wasn’t trying to be nosy, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why he didn’t want to talk about Sam. She was the only one he_ would _talk about him to, and only when there was some crisis he couldn’t solve, or an issue he didn’t understand. All she wanted to do was let him know that he could talk to her about the good stuff too; whenever she was in a new relationship, that was all she wanted to do, and clearly, he was chomping at the bit to gush about this guy, but for whatever reason, something was holding him back._

_Its wasn’t like she could force him to talk about something he wasn’t ready to talk about, she thought as she picked up her pen and started scratching out the beginnings of their victim profile on her notepad. But, as she learned a long time ago: while Spence had a knack for closing himself off, eventually he always came around._

_So, she decided to change the subject, albeit only slightly, “If he’s staying at yours more often, then that explains why I saw him at the grocery story the other day.”_

_That caught Spencer’s attention. He looked up at her curiously and asked, “What grocery store?”_

_“The organic market on Columbia,” she said, “He was buying what looked to be his weight in spinach and swiss chard.”_

_Spencer rolled his eyes affectionately, and JJ bit her tongue to hold back a trill of excitement at how absolutely smitten he looked. Holy moly, he was so infatuated with this guy. Just the mere mention of Sam and Spence’s entire demeanor changed, his gaze softening, that self-indulgent little smile on his face, and it made her so damn happy to see_ him _happy that she could barely contain herself._

 _On their ill-fated date (proof that Jason Gideon wasn’t the infallible profiler he thought he was), after they established they weren’t interested in each other like_ that _, JJ got Spencer talking a bit about his relationship history. It was Spence so she hadn’t managed to wrest that much information from him, but what they had discussed stuck with her. She’d never thought of him as someone who dates, so when he told her he had his fair share, mostly with_ guys _, she took notice. And when he confessed that while he was no stranger to dating, he’d never been in love before, that caught her attention as well._

_He told her he’d been infatuated with people, that he’d been attracted to people, but it was nothing like how he thought love was supposed to feel. And when she chatted his ear off about the many and varied loves of her life, he mentioned he was losing hope that he’d find someone he felt that way about._

_So, to see him so_ obviously _in love with someone… jeez, it did her heart good._

_Reid was in his own little world, reminiscing about his boyfriend and JJ was glad for it, as it left her free to gush over him unabashedly. “He has these green smoothies every morning after his run,” Spence said, pulling a face, “and they’re awful. They make the whole kitchen smell like a freshly mowed lawn. I never knew he was so health food obsessed because when he was an intern he just lived on fast food. But now that he’s a resident it’s been nothing but salads and egg white omelettes, and it’s throwing me for a loop.”_

_JJ snorted, trying to stifle a laugh, “How else do you expect him to keep that figure?”_

_Spence flushed an even deeper shade of red but laughed along with her, more lighthearted than JJ had ever seen him before. “That’s the point!” he said, gesturing with his hands, “He’s gigantic, and if all he’s eating is lettuce and egg whites then he’s got no business being so—so…”_

_“Ripped?”_

_Reid looked absolutely scandalized, “JJ!”_

_She held up her hands in defense, “Hey, you’re the one whose seen him naked, not me. At least I’m assuming you have.” Spencer shot her a sideways glare as she added, “Besides, a salad is still a meal, and one you don’t need to make.”_

_“But I do.”_

_“You cook?”_

_“You don’t need to act so surprised.”_

_“I just never pictured you cooking.”_

_“Well, he can’t, and I’m not willing to eat take-out every night, so…”_

_“Wow.” She honestly hadn’t expected that, “Are you any good?”_

_“I’m very good.”_

_“You two should have me over one night.”_

_“I’d like that.”_

_JJ smiled at his earnestness. “He’s super shy, huh?” she asked, and Spencer nodded, “He looked like a little lost puppy when I said hi to him.”_

_“Did he do that thing where he curls his shoulders forward, so he’s not looming over you?”_

_“Yes!” JJ sat forward in her seat, “And he was so nervous, when his hands weren’t jammed in his jacket pockets he was fiddling with his hair, the poor guy.”_

_“It did take him about a month to work up the courage to talk to me for the first time.”_

_“Good thing he did, or you never would have ended up arguing over dinners.”_

_Reid smiled, a wistful look crossing over his face, “I never thought it would be so easy.”_

_“What would?”_

_But that was all the relationship chatter he could manage, apparently. Like someone flipped a switch he shut right down, immediately turning back to the case files, “We should get back to constructing the victimology. We’ll be landing soon.”_

_She tried not to let her disappointment show, tampering her previous excitement and letting him off the hook for the moment. For now, she was happy to go along with whatever pace he set, murmuring an affectionate, “Okay, Spence,” before joining him in constructing the Kyle’s profile._

_He’s Reid, she thought to herself. He’d talk to her when he was ready._

“Hey, guys!” Morgan called from outside, interrupting her reverie and giving Emily the convenient excuse to run downstairs, away from JJ’s awkward confrontation, “I think I got something!”

That something was the frozen, long dead body of Hankel’s father, and JJ feared once again that Reid would never get the chance.

 

**February 4 th @ 9am**

“There's something weird going on here.”

Emily looked up from the journal she was reading to glance incredulously at Morgan, “You think?”

They’d been at it all night, none of them getting more than a few hours rest before taking up their mantle at the kitchen table, scouring Hankel’s diaries for some clue as to where he’d taken Reid. They were exhausted, running on empty, and while Emily had managed to sneak out of the house for a bit to interview Hankel’s NA sponsor, the time away hadn’t done her much good. She still felt like she was ramming her head against a brick wall, and no amount of Hankel’s inane ramblings was helping her to make sense of their situation.

Morgan realized he was stating the obvious. “No, seriously. Check this out.” He pushed the journal over to her as he hastened to clarify, “this journal is filled with religious ramblings. He notates hour by hour.” Morgan traced his finger across the page, going line by line, “‘November 15th, 3:17- if ye offer a sacrifice of peace offering unto the lord, ye shall offer it at your own will.’ And it goes on and on. 5:04, 7:41, 10:22, 1:42. But then it goes blank for days.”

Emily shrugged, “Maybe he got sick of writing?”

“I think I got it,” Hotch said, sitting up in his chair and flattening the book he was reading against the table. The rest of them stood and gathered around him as he read aloud, “’December 6th. Father sick. Wants me to put him down, I say thou shalt not kill. He says honor thy father. Pastor J won’t answer. Must pray for guidance.’”

“He kills his father as an act of mercy?” Morgan asked, his brow furrowing as he pulled the journal closer.

“This is 2 months ago. Tobias Hankel’s father had been dead for four months already.”

“That's it.” Morgan snapped his fingers, pacing to the other side of the table and pulling the head chair back. “Look at the floor,” he said, “These scuff marks are fresh. I mean, it's like two people were moving the chairs constantly, trying to fight for control.”

“So?” JJ asked.

“This journal matches Charles Hankel’s handwriting, but it was written after he died.” Hotch pointed over his head towards the ceiling, “Upstairs, Tobias' bedroom: it's got junk piled from floor to ceiling, but the other bedroom could pass a military inspection.”

Gideon sat up, fully attentive for the first time in hours, “You’re saying one of Tobias' personalities is his father.”

Hotch nodded, “Tobias was raised with a strict religious code – black and white, right and wrong. When his father asked Tobias to kill him, something had to give. His brain couldn't handle the moral contradiction, so it split into 2 personalities to keep his father alive.”

JJ scoffed, unconvinced, “Then who’s Raphael?”

“My guess is he's a mediator between the two,” Gideon explained, “Angels have no human emotions. Live or die, they don't care, so long as it's God's will.”

“We need to start profiling Tobias' father,” Hotch said, leaping to action now that they had another lead to work from, “He may be the one who chose where to take Reid.”

“I'll get Garcia on it,” Morgan offered, hurrying from the room.

Hotch turned his attention to Prentiss, “Did you have any luck with the rehab contact?”

“He has no idea where Hankel might be,” Emily told him, “but we did learn that he has a serious drug problem— Dilaudid.”

“That could explain the psychotic fracture. JJ, I want you to…”

Emily could hear Hotch speaking, delegating, but her attention was only half on him. The other was split to the journal he’d been reading, to a certain line, and she traced her fingertips over it as she asked, “Tobias and his dad I get, but why an angel?”

This was all starting to sound a little too familiar for her liking.

_February 2nd @ 2pm – Atlanta Police Precinct_

_Reid is acting weird, Prentiss mused, watching as he puttered around the Georgia field office, preparing to compile their profile. He’d been fidgety for the past few hours (well, more fidgety than normal), ever since they figured out that the killer was stalking people over their webcams, since that message came up on the Kyle’s computer: “The armies of Satan shall not prevail.”_

_What on earth was going on with him? She’d never seen him like this. Granted, she hadn’t been with the team long, but she’d gotten to know him well enough, or so she thought. Why was he acting so weird? Maybe they’d thrown him off his game with their teasing him on the jet, she wondered. She was still getting the hang of navigating everyone’s working relationships, so she might have come off a bit harsh. She should probably apologize._

_Though, it seemed like she wasn’t going to get the chance anytime soon. She was interrupted by Hotch as he came into the boardroom, the rest of the team taking their seat around the table as he stood near the whiteboard. “So,” he asked, crossing his arms over his impeccable suit, “what have we got so far?”_

_Prentiss tapped her pen against her notepad, “The killings are clinically efficient. They had the ear marks of a slaughter, as in an animal.”_

_“Or a sacrifice,” Gideon added._

_Speaking of teammates and their out of character reactions… Prentiss frowned as Morgan sat up a little straighter, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he chose that throw-away quip to mull over._

_Interesting._

_“I haven't been able to find anything in federal or state databases that suggest similar crimes.” JJ threw up her hands, the pile of old case files stacked in front of her a testament to the backbreaking, and ultimately fruitless, work she’d been putting in all day, “As far as I can tell, it's the first in a series.”_

_“At least one member of the team may believe he's killing in the name of god, suggesting a psychopathy that should display extreme levels disorganization,” Reid said, his back to the rest of the team as he studied their overloaded white board, “yet there are forensic countermeasures and somebody in control enough to do complicated computer work. One member of the team's organized, the other's extremely disorganized. But what's strange is that the one that we would consider as being most in control, the one that made the phone call, can't seem to stop the other one from killing. Usually the frenzied personality takes direction from the cooler head.”_

_Morgan made a noise low in his throat and pulled out his phone, dialling and then hesitating._

_Curious, Prentiss asked, “What is it?”_

_He shrugged, “This case… it’s familiar.”_

_Ouch, was that a jab at JJ? Hotch seemed to have the same idea and attempted to stand up for her, reiterating that, “There are no similar crimes in the federal or state databases—”_

_Morgan cut him off, “Not the crime specifically, but the unsub. Doesn’t he—don’t they remind you of the Winchesters?”_

_Spencer went rigid, halfway through tacking a photo to the cork board. Suddenly, he was tenser than he’d been all day, and that was saying something. “Who’re the Winchesters?” Prentiss asked._

_The whole team looked to Reid, whose back was still turned, for the answer. But surprisingly, he didn’t say a word. For what had to be the first time in his life, in the face of a question he was silent, and after a moment of confused silence from everyone in the room, they all shifted their attentions to Gideon, who was watching Reid critically. “John Winchester was a serial killer who exhibited a similar psychopathy: he traveled across the continental United States in a car with his two young sons, hunting and killing people he believed were demons in human guise,” Gideon answered, “He was highly disorganized, barely managing to care for himself and his kids, yet he was somehow capable of organizing elaborate crimes and evading authorities for close to thirteen years. In the end, he was only captured because his youngest son turned him in.”_

_“How did he avoid capture for so long?” JJ asked._

_“It was assumed there was a partner, but they were never found,” said Hotch, “Someone else called the shots, provided him with funds, weapons, supplies, and picked out the victims.”_

_Gideon nodded in agreement, “I interviewed Winchester not long after his arrest. He made no mention of a partner, but he was unable to provide specifics about where his means of supporting himself came from. Granted, his son Dean ran credit card schemes to keep them afloat, but any money John got for his kills came from a third party that even he didn’t know about. The only name that came up was Pastor Jim, and it turned out to be a dead end.”_

_“What about his sons?” Prentiss asked. She wasn’t sure how this correlated to finding their unsub, but it was interesting, due in part to the reaction this discussion was pulling out of Reid, who was stiff as a board and silent, “Did they know anything?”_

_“All they had was a phone number to call in case of emergencies,” Morgan told her, “The number was for an abandoned payphone in Lebanon, Kansas, and they’d never met this Jim guy, anyhow.”_

_“So,” JJ said slowly, attempting to parse the relation to the case at hand, “you think Jim is the partner?”_

_Morgan shook his head. “No, that was never corroborated. But the signature in our case, here – a disorganized killer calling the shots, while the organized killer takes direction – is eerily similar to John and his_ son _, Dean.”_

_“Both of whom have been MIA since 2000,” Gideon added._

_“What?” Prentiss blurted out, alongside JJ’s surprised, “How?”_

_“Dean Winchester was granted leniency after he was deemed mentally unfit to stand trial. He was sentenced to ten years in a federal rehabilitation facility, and was released on parole after serving eight, thanks to his good behaviour. About two days into his parole he crossed state lines and vanished.”_

_Overlooked by the rest of team, Reid crumpled the photo he was holding in a reflexive fist._

_“John Winchester was in transport to a state hospital after contracting an infection during incarceration, requiring emergency surgery.” Morgan took the reigns from Hotch, and Prentiss was fascinated, watching as Reid dropped the crushed photo, looking down as it bounced off the carpeted floor in shock, as though he couldn’t believe he’d done that, “The van he was being transported in was t-boned on an access road in what was believed to be a coordinated escape attempt. Two guards and five prisoners died in transport, while three escaped—"_

_And that was the tipping point for Reid, who rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms and turned to face the rest of the room. “Rufus Turner, Alexander McIntyre and John Winchester,” he said, interrupting Morgan, “Only Turner and McIntyre were ever recovered.”_

_Gideon scoffed, “Good of you to join us.”_

_Ordinarily, a snide remark like that from his mentor would have sent Reid into a self-reflective tailspin, but today he was anything but ordinary. He was nearly fuming, gesturing with wide open palms towards the group as he exclaimed, “This is nothing but conjecture! There’s no evidence here that points to Dean or John Winchester being involved in these killings. The signatures aren’t even the same! The Winchesters believed they were eradicating monsters to circumvent Armageddon; this unsub is killing people he believes to be_ sinners _.”_

_Morgan stammered, knocked off course a little by Reid’s sudden, vehement response to an idea he’d only been spit balling. “But what about this,” he said, clearing is throat and standing up from his seat. He walked over to the corkboard and pointed to the photograph Reid had just tacked up, reading it aloud, “‘The armies of Satan shall not prevail.’ Sounds like a similar motive to me.”_

_“The Winchesters—” Hotch paused, correcting himself, “or rather John, believed he was on a holy mission from God.”_

_“They thought by defeating the armies of Satan here on earth, they could circumvent the biblical apocalypse.” Gideon drawled, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Reid._

_“I can’t—” Reid huffed, his jaw slack as he stared disbelievingly between Hotch, Gideon and Morgan, “How the hell can you—a team of seasoned professionals—even indulge such an asinine hypothesis!?”_

Holy shit _._

_“Reid!” Hotch snapped._

_Gideon slid forward, his hands flattening on the table. He was damn near fuming, angrier than Prentiss had ever seen him before, and she and JJ shared a panicked look as he icily demanded, “Excuse me?”_

_His suddenly steeliness gave Reid pause, and if he hadn’t just flipped his freaking gourd and yelled at their boss, Prentiss might have felt a little sorry for him. He stepped back nervously, his jaw snapping shut as if he just realized what he’d done, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might apologize. But any fear or remorse dissipated as quickly as it came, and the next time he spoke, it was only to continue digging his own grave. “If you took a step back and looked at this objectively, you’d realize that Dean Winchester would never work with his father again,” Reid said, a little crack in his voice being the only indication he was even the tiniest bit nervous, “The man ruined his life! Dean spent ten years in psychiatric treatment, including intense, debilitating deprogramming as a direct result of his father’s psychosis!”_

_As baffled as the rest of them, Morgan held his hands out in a placating gesture. “We’re not suggesting these unsubs_ are _the Winchesters, Reid.” He looked over at Gideon and Hotch to see if he’d really stepped over a line, but they were laser focused on Reid, whose confidence was wilting with every second that ticked by, “I only brought it up because the MO was similar, and since we know there’s an outside partner…”_

_He waved his hand helplessly, and Hotch chimed in, finishing his thought for him, “Maybe that partner is still out there, working with a new killer in much the same way.”_

_Hotch’s last words were like a gate slamming shut, and even the hustle and bustle of the station around them wasn’t enough to break through the deafening silence that came with it. No one dared to speak, no one dared move. JJ was unequivocally mortified, staring at Spencer like he’d lost his damn mind, and honestly, maybe he had. Spencer was completely deflated at this point, all his previous bravado gone, evaporated like a puddle in the sun. He looked as thought he wanted to sink through the floor, and both Morgan and Hotch are staring at him like he’d sprouted another head. Gideon was positively murderous, and Prentiss was completely at a loss._

_What the hell was going on with Reid?_

_To get them back on track, Prentiss reached across the table, dialling up Garcia and putting her on speaker._

_Garcia picked up on the first ring, “Speak to me, ducky.”_

_“Hey Garcia,” Prentiss said, tapping her pen nervously on the table as she scanned the reactions of her teammates, “Could you send us everything you can wrangle up on John and Dean Winchester?”_

_“Random, but sure. I’m on it!”_

_The line clicked, and it was as if nothing had even happened; everyone was still staring at Reid._

_It figured Spencer would be the one to break the tense silence, stammering nervously, “I don’t—”_

_“Get out,” Gideon interrupted._

_“What?” Spencer asked._

_Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off an oncoming headache, “Go cool off.”_

_“Don’t go far,” Gideon added._

_Reid was stunned, hurt even, but soon enough his expression fell, his walls coming back up as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him._

_With Reid went all the tension that surrounded them, rushing from the room like a vacuum, and Morgan turned to the rest of them, completely baffled as he echoed what they were all thinking, “What the_ hell _was that about?”_

_“Never mind,” Gideon said, waving him off, “he’s right; the Winchester connection is just speculation at this point, and it’s not going to help us get closer to finding this unsub, so let’s get back to basics. What do we have?”_

_Morgan looked helplessly at Hotch, who only shrugged his shoulders. “Unsub one called the police before the killing, but he didn't leave time for him to get there,” Morgan said, sitting back down and scratching at his goatee thoughtfully, “Is the phone call just a guy working on a defense in case of capture? I mean, maybe he didn't want to stop the other, but he did whatever he had to do to cover himself. So... What do we have so far?”_

_Gideon smiled ruefully, “Not enough.”_

“Hey,” Emily said, something from that heated exchange days prior sticking out in her mind, “I think we have a—"

The front door burst open, and the local Sherriff hurried inside, out of breath. “This could be some bad news,” he said, drawing the full attention of everyone in the kitchen, “A computer store was robbed in the middle of the night in a suburb outside of Atlanta. The thief got away with 4 laptops, external hard drives, and a satellite.”

“If it's Tobias, it puts him right back in business,” Hotch said.

“Hey guys.”

“We need to get ahead of this.”

“Guys,” Prentiss said, knocking her fist on the table to gain their attention. She picked up the journal they’d been looking over and held it in the air, “This Pastor J that Tobias references in his journal… you don’t think—"

“Guys!” Morgan called from the other room, preceded by Garcia’s panicked gasp. “Guys! You need to get in here; it’s Reid!”

 

**7pm**

All things considered, it had been a relatively quiet evening.

Gideon found himself alone, just as he liked it, twirling a small silver cross between his fingers. He’d been back from the last crime scene for only an hour, and in that hour, he’d ordered Garcia to interrupt the video transmission of Hankel’s latest murder. Since then, he’d had nothing to do but wait, plucking random religious iconography from Hankel’s kitchen table, if only to keep his hands busy.

Hankel was going to retaliate, and Reid would be the one to suffer the consequences. Not only had Hankel forced Reid to choose who was going to be his next victim, but he’d made him watch as they were brutally murdered. All the comfort Gideon could offer Reid was a message of faith spoken through the victim’s webcam, and even that had been forced. He knew that Hankel was going to stream his latest kill online, he knew that he would have to stop it, and he knew that, with Reid in his clutches, there was only one person he was going to blame.

He could only hope that Hankel would let Reid off with his life.

“You had to do it,” Gideon told himself, looping the cross through his fingers and flipping it, his gaze distant as he ran through every possible outcome of his decision, “You couldn’t let him win.”

“Gideon!”

There it was, the panicked call he’d been expecting. He was on his feet the second Garcia shouted for him, running towards the wall full of monitors even though it was the last place he wanted to be. He didn’t know what he was going to see there, projected to him through Hankel’s digital gaze, forcing him to watch whatever he chose to do to the kid he’d personally brought into this job. The responsibility he felt daily for the kid was gigantic, but always, the good Reid could do in the field outweighed the dangers—until now.

Now, Jason was kicking himself for not keeping Reid on desk duty, or leaving him behind a desk like Garcia, a phone call away from the dangers they faced. He regretted ever picking Reid out of the crowd and convincing him to join the BAU, only thinking at the time how much the kid reminded him of himself, and how much they needed a mind like his.

“You’re a liar!” he heard Tobias scream over the speakers, hearing the slap before he saw it. Reid whimpered pitifully, his voice teary and Gideon needed to brace himself, clapping both of his hands down on Garcia’s trembling shoulders before he dared look up at the monitor. “You’re pitiful!” Tobias hissed, pacing in front of Reid who was covering in his chair, tugging his wrists against the restraints that held him there, “Just like my son.”

 _So_ , Gideon thought to himself, holding Garcia’s shoulder’s even tighter, as much for her sake as for his, _this is Charles, the father_. He could hear it, now that he was listening for it: the way Hankel was deepening his voice into an almost absurd growl, unconsciously injecting his perception of his father into the mimicry of his voice. “This ends now,” the projected ghost of Charles Hankel snarled from his son’s lips, his hands curled tightly into fists as he reared back, punching Reid in the jaw, sending spittle and blood flying across the cabin floor, “Confess your sins.” Another strike, this time a scolding backhand that knocked a surprised sob from Reid, demanding, “Confess!”

“I haven’t done anything!” Reid cried, and even in the dim light of the cabin, across the shoddy resolution of the video being streamed to them, Gideon could see him thinking, desperately _thinking_. His dirty fingers scrabbled along the wooden arms of the chair, struggling against his bonds as he begged, “Tobias, help me!”

Reid knew there were three people in Hankel’s head, and he was latching on to the only one with a conscience, the only one capable of sympathizing with his plight as his father knocked him around. Gideon took that knowledge and ran with it, half-heartedly convincing himself that was why Reid looked so injured, so meek. Of course, he would make himself seem more afraid. If he was trying to appeal to Tobias he’d use the thing they had in common: his fathers abuse.

It was a bold-faced lie, but it was one Gideon needed. He couldn’t look up at this screen and see Reid as a victim or a captive without hating himself for it.

“He can’t help you,” Charles told him, grasping Reid’s chin in his punishing grip and tilting his head back at an unnatural angle, forcing the muscles in Reid’s neck to stand out in strain, “he’s weak.”

But Reid couldn’t give up. “Tobias,” he whimpered, licking his lips and staring up into Hankel’s eyes with a wild desperation, “help.”

“Confess,” Charles said, releasing his chin only to punch him twice more, Reid’s head flying left to right, boneless, like a rag dolls.

“Help,” Reid groaned, his chin hitting his chest as blood dripped down from his newly split lip, staining his shirt in little droplets that diffused into the fabric.

Garcia inhaled sharply as Charles’ next hit sent Reid tumbling backwards, the whole chair rocking on it’s legs and slamming against the floorboards. Her hands came up to meet Gideon’s, still wrapped around her shoulders in a smothering grip, and she held him just as tightly. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have the words to explain what he felt in that moment, nor did he know what to say to comfort her. Gideon was silent, his jaw clenched and shuddering as Reid hit his head off the floor, the air knocked from his lungs as he fought for a strangled, gasping breath.

“Oh my God,” Garcia murmured, horrified as Reid began to seize. He was shaking, his arms and legs jerking in opposite directions and his spine alternately curling in and straightening out, and fear settled like an icy brick in Gideon’s stomach. This was all wrong; something else was at play here, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure it out. He couldn’t think, every idea that came to mind drowned out by the strangled wheezes punching from Reid’s lungs as he uselessly gasped for air. He couldn’t figure it out, his fingers digging into Penelope’s shoulders tight enough to bruise, until she said softly, “he’s killing him.”

He was dying. From the blows to the head, or some sinister thing Gideon wasn’t privy to, Reid was dying right in front of him, and there was nothing he could do.

He could only watch.

When Reid’s sharp, jerky movements stopped, his eyes rolling back in his head and his jaw going slack, Gideon stared in a tangled mix of relief and horror as his chest deflated. He saw the air leave him, his last breath, heard his death rattle across the speakers as he foamed at the mouth. He was gone, dead and when Charles said smugly, “that’s the devil vacating your body,” he felt sick at the feeling of respite that washed over him. Relief that it was over, that he wouldn’t need to stand here and watch this kid that he was responsible for, that he cared for, dying any longer.

“What do we do?” Garcia asked tentatively, letting go of his hands and turning in her seat. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock and demanded, louder this time, “ _What are we supposed to do?”_

“There’s nothing _to_ do,” Gideon told her, his arms dropping to his sides. A thought came to him, unbidden in its callous simplicity: they might as well just pack up and go back to Atlanta. Hankel wouldn’t stay where he was with Reid gone, and they needed the Atlanta PD’s resources to follow him to his next destination.

But he couldn’t look away from Reid’s body reclined on the screen, still and silent. Hankel stormed out of the cabin, leaving Reid’s corpse on the ground, the chair he was tied to holding supporting him where he fell. With his legs strapped up and his arms akimbo, Gideon could almost fool himself into thinking he was still alive, but he knew those eyes, could spot them even miles away. Those glassy, unseeing eyes.

Dead eyes.

Garcia wailed, dropping her head into her hands, stammering a string of “nos” into her palms. And as the rest of the team tore through the kitchen to get to her, Gideon slipped out of the room, stumbling down the hall. His feet felt light as air, like they weren’t touching ground and he bounced off the wall on his way towards the bathroom, knocking a down a picture which clattered loudly as it hit the floor.

He slammed the door behind him, not that he thought any of the team would come after him, but because he was teetering on the edge of hysteria, and he needed a physical boundary between him and what he’d just witnessed.

“Okay, Jason,” he said to himself, pacing back and forth across the tiny, five-foot bathroom, “You had to do it.” He rubbed his hands together, then over his face, pressing his fingers so firmly into his eye sockets that when he pulled them away, he saw stars, “You did the right thing. You had to stop the video, there’s no question.”

And while he knew (somehow, he knew) he’d made the right call, there was an insidious voice inside his mind that hissed at him, “ _Did you have to yell at him the last time you saw him?”_

He never got a chance to apologize for how he spoke to Reid at the station, did he? Despite the outburst that triggered it, Reid deserved at least that much. And now it seemed he never would get the chance to find out why the kid seemed so distant, impulsive, and not in his right mind. He’d been hiding something from the whole team, which wasn’t anything new. But Jason always prided himself on understanding Reid, even if he didn’t quite understand himself, and now, though the mystery still prodded at him, he’d never know. He’d never have the chance to know, all because he stopped that fucking video, and Hankel took it out on the kid.

And now, the thing that burned him the most was that the last interaction Gideon would ever have with Reid was scolding him like a disobedient child.

_February 2nd @ 3pm – Atlanta Police Precinct_

_Gideon was fuming, and the undercurrent of concern that came with it only served to anger him further._

_Reid had never talked back or mouthed off like that, and for him to do so in the middle of a strange police department, over something so seemingly innocuous—it was too out of character. What was going on with him?_

_He knew Reid was having a hard time a few months back, but his mood had improved drastically once their case load calmed down, and he’d never snapped at anyone like that before. Gideon wasn’t aware that he_ could. _Teachers pet that he was, he’d have thought Reid would rather eat his left arm than mouth off to his superior, and yet he’d done so with a stubborn sort of bravado Gideon hadn’t been prepared for._

_Storming out of the conference room and into the staff lounge, Gideon was relieved to see Spencer’s unfortunate bout of willfulness had dissipated. Sitting at one of the break tables, staring sorrowfully into his coffee, Reid reflexively pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his knuckles as he lost himself in thought, his brow furrowed as though he was trying to puzzle out his motives as well. And while Gideon meant to ask him what was wrong, if there was something going on with him, or with his mother, when he opened his mouth the only thing that came out was an angry, bellowing, “What the hell is wrong with you!?”_

_Reid jolted, the heel of one hand knocking against his cup, coffee sloshing over the rim onto the table. “Pardon?” he stammered._

_“Don’t give me that crap,” Gideon hissed, slamming his palms down on the table and looming over him, “you know what I said.”_

_“I’m sorry.” Reid ducked his head, hiding behind his curtain of hair, “I was out of line, I shouldn’t—”_

_“You’re damn right you were out of line!” He needed to keep his voice down; they were in a different state, a different office, and he didn’t need the LEO’s gossiping about the FBI agent who had a melt down in their breakroom. He was already attracting undue attention, so Gideon lowered his voice, “We might relax the chain of command for the sake of functionality, but this is still the FBI, I am still your superior and you will not speak to me, or Hotch, or Morgan like that again, do you understand?”_

_His shoulders up to his ears, his hands curled into tight fists where he pressed them into the tops of his thighs, Reid murmured, “Yes, sir.”_

_The kid looked crushed. He stared down at his mug like he wanted to crawl inside it and die, torn both ways between stunned and on the verge of tears. With a sigh, Gideon sat down next to him, wincing when Reid half heartedly flinched away out of instinct._

_“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” he asked._

_Reid shook his head to the contrary, and didn’t make a peep._

_“No?” Gideon frowned, “Are you certain about that? Because I’ve never known you to defend a pair of serial killers against your own team.”_

_It was the right button to press, because even though he didn’t snap like he did in the conference room, Reid bristled at the mention of the Winchesters. “I didn’t think it was conducive to the investigation to start making wild speculations to the potential involvement of a pair of murderers who haven’t been seen or heard from in seven years.”_

_“You were awfully invested in their non-involvement.”_

_“I promise you, I wasn’t.”_

_He was getting tired of Reid avoiding the question. “What’s really going on?”_

_Reid sighed heavily, slumping over his coffee with his head in his hands, looking terribly exhausted. “Nothing,” he said, dropping his hands on the table, “I swear, nothing is going on. I just lost my temper, and I apologized, so can we please—can we drop it?” He looked over to Gideon, his gaze pleading, “I want to get back to the case, and I think heading back in that room after that outburst is going to be humiliating enough as is.”_

_He was certainly hiding something… but Gideon had no idea what it was. And the kid was pleading with him like he never had before, and despite his attempts to distance himself, it tugged on his heartstrings. He clapped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and though he wanted to tell him he was sorry for yelling at him, that he could tell him anything, personally or professionally, and Gideon would listen with an open heart and mind, when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “Okay.”_

 “Jason.”

Gideon looked up from the sink, torn from his reverie as Hotch opened the bathroom door. He waved him along before heading down the hall, and Gideon paused, unsure if he wanted to go back into that room, knowing what he was going to see there.

He was glad when he did, however. Even though Reid was tied up in a shack in the middle of nowhere, skin sallow and his voice roughened and scratchy, he was alive.

And he was going to let them know how to find him.

 

**8pm**

“Hotch.”

JJ followed Morgan, hot on the heels of Hotch as he made a beeline for Hankel’s living room. She was still trying to get her bearings, having been wrenched from the incomprehensible depths of her grief mere moments after learning Reid had died. Watching Hankel resuscitate him had been an exercise in maintaining composure, not willing to let herself break down in front of the team, but instead bottling all her nervous energy, her hope and desperateness until Reid took a sudden breath, coughing and drowsy, but very much alive.

“I’m not a narcissist,” Hotch said, grabbing a bible off the dusty bookshelf.

JJ couldn’t believe that after Spence had come back from the dead, Hotch’s first instinct was to take offence to what he said about him, under duress with a freaking gun in his face. She shuddered at memory of Hankel, spinning the cartridge of his revolver, a single bullet nestles inside, before pressing it to Spencer’s forehead and demanding he choose one of them to die. Under those circumstances, Spence could hardly be held accountable for choosing a member of their team, and the fact he picked Hotch wasn’t anything personal.

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one floored by his reaction. “Come on.” Gideon said, “Look, you can’t think anything from what Reid just said.”

Morgan nodded along, “He’s not in his right mind Hotch.”

“No. Stop.” Hotch said, holding up his hands, “Stop. All right, everybody right now—what’s my worst quality?” Like hell they were going to answer that, and Hotch knew it, “Ok, I’ll start. I have no sense of humor.”

“You’re a bully.” JJ said, the words spewing forth before she had a second to think about them.

“I’m a bully.”

“You can be a drill Sargent sometimes,” Morgan said with a shrug.”

“Right.”

“You don’t trust women as much as men.” Emily looked as though she’d been holding that in since she met him.

“Ok, good. I’m all these things, but none of you said that I ever put myself above the team, because I don’t. Ever.” Hotch flipped the bible open, leafing through the pages until he found what he was looking for, “Reid and I argued about the definition of classic narcissism, and he knew that I would remember that, and he also quoted Genesis, chapter 23, verse 4.” He thrust the book towards JJ, “Read it.”

She cast Gideon a questioning glance, and when he looked back just as perplexed as her, she read the passage aloud, “’I am a stranger and a sojourner with you. Give me property, forbear a place among you that I may bury my dead out of my sight.’”

Hotch smiled, one of those rare sunny ones, filled to the brim with relief, “He wouldn’t get it wrong unless it was on purpose.”

“He’s in a cemetery.” Gideon said, and walking back to where Penelope sat, told her to, “Call up the first time we saw Reid.”

It took them less than ten minutes to figure out where he was after that, and less than five to notify local law enforcement and gear up. Garcia had pinpointed Reid’s location, emergency vehicles were on the way and JJ was just stepping outside when she caught a glimpse of the van her and Reid had driven in days ago. The rest of the team passed her by as she stopped in the doorway, heading towards their respective cars in her periphery, but she was caught, her feet stuck to the floor as she was brought back to the night they came there, to what Spence had confided in her on the drive over.

_February 3 rd @ 10pm_

_“Do you want to talk about it?”_

_It was a shot in the dark, but Spencer had been deathly silent on the ride to the witness’s house. He was sitting in the passenger seat, his chin in his hand and staring distractedly out the window as he’d been for the past twenty minutes, sulking like a little kid, and JJ had enough of it._

_His answer was predictable, “Not really.”_

_“I never thought I’d see the day you’d snap at Gideon like that,” JJ said._

_Spencer scoffed, “Neither did I, but they were ballparking an idea that wasn’t conducive to the matter at hand. People are dying, there’s no point in debating what-ifs.”_

_“Isn’t that the job?” she asked._

_“Not when they don’t fit the case.”_

_He got that right, at least. “Well,” JJ said with sigh, pulling to a stop at a red light, halfway out of town and into the boonies, “you’ll be happy to know that after he kicked you out, Gideon agreed with you.”_

_And out of the corner of her eye she was relieved to see that had brought a smile to his face. “Good,” he said._

_The drive was a little less awkward from there on out. She was still driving in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For a while she was just happy to be enjoying Reid’s company, when in typical Spencer fashion, he blurted out haphazardly and unprovoked, “Sam told me he loves me.”_

_JJ flexed her fingers around the steering wheel, taking a moment to process what she’d just heard. “Oh. Wow, okay.” Why did he say that like he was upset about it? Like it was some dirty secret? “That’s good, right?” she asked, genuinely at a loss._

_So was Spencer, it seemed, “I don’t know. I mean, it is, but I couldn’t…”_

_He trailed off, waving his hand helplessly but unable to drum up the words, so JJ urged him on, “You couldn’t what, Spence?”_

_“I couldn’t say it back,” he said helplessly._

_“You don’t love him?”_

_Spencer shot bolt upright and turned to her. “No!” he exclaimed, “I mean, yes, I think I do? I don’t know. And that’s why I couldn’t say it. I tried, but I couldn’t get it out.”_

_“Oh, honey.” She reached over to pat his shoulder, “That’s okay! You don’t need to say it back if you’re not ready. He didn’t get angry or anything, did he?”_

_“No, of course not. He was so understanding, and that just made it worse.” Bringing his thumbnail between his teeth, he looked back out the window, “I know I hurt him.”_

_“He’s an adult, he can handle it.” JJ waved that concern off; if he was the type of person to get angry about someone not being ready to say they loved him, then he wasn’t the right person for Spence, as far as she was concerned. She had to ask, “Do you love him, though?”_

_JJ wished she had a camera, because Morgan wouldn’t believe the look on Spence’s face. She’d never seen him at a loss before, with every answer to every question hovering at the tip of his tongue. But now, he almost looked afraid at his lack of certainty, like he didn’t know what if felt like until that very moment, and it was so human, so real that JJ was torn between slamming the car in park and hugging him, or gawking at him like an attraction at the zoo._

_“I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, and I didn’t want to say something I didn’t know for certain was true.” He was squirming in his seat, and every word that passed his lips sounded like it was causing him physical pain to force out, “I love my mom, obviously, and I love you, but that’s different. And no one’s ever told me that they love me before, you know? For a long time, I never thought…” he shrugged his shoulders, “I never thought anyone would.”_

_That was absolute bull, but she couldn’t tell him that. The insecurity ran deep with this one, and telling him that he was worthy of love, that he was wonderful, smart, gorgeous, and every other truth she and every one with eyes could see, would only shut him down further. So instead, she tried a different tact, and asked, “How do you feel about him?”_

_Spence looked over at her sharply, his brow creased in confusion, “I told you, I—”_

_JJ waved a hand, “Don’t try to quantify it, okay? Just… tell me how you feel when you’re around him. How does he_ make _you feel?”_

_“Safe.”_

_JJ smiled. He didn’t even hesitate._

_“Comfortable. Happy. Special. He makes me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever known, and when I’m around him, I don’t feel like a dorky, awkward kid.” This was a night of firsts, it seemed, as JJ had never heard this tone of voice before, at least, not from him. He went right from defensive to moony, a silly little grin on his face, the same one he wore on the jet when talking about Sam’s awful eating habits. It was adorable. He was clearly smitten, and the only one in the world who couldn’t see it was_ him _: the supposed genius._

_But, slowly, he was getting a clue. “When he looks at me—” he said in that dreamy voice, “the way he looks at me, it makes me feel so exhilarated it almost hurts, and—” He stopped abruptly, thought for a long second, and stated, “I love him.”_

_JJ nodded, “You sure do, kiddo. You’ve got it bad.”_

_Stunned, Spence repeated, “I love him.”_

_Grinning from ear to ear, JJ pumped her fist in the air, “Say it louder for the people in the back!”_

_The car may have drifted a little into the left-hand lane thanks to her enthusiasm, but the darkened sideroad they were driving on was deserted, and Spencer was too preoccupied by his own self-discovery to care. “Is it always this scary?” he asked._

_“Every time.”_

_“No amount of Jane Austen could ever have prepared me for this.”_

_“Some things you can’t just read about in books, Spence. Sometimes, you have to experience it for yourself”_

_“I can’t believe I didn’t say it back.” He rummaged through his bag at his feet, “God, JJ I feel awful. Should I—” pulling his phone from his bag, he flipped it open and frowned, “No service.”_

_Of course there was no service; they were in the middle of nowhere. “Probably shouldn’t say it over the phone with me in the car, anyways,” JJ said, “At least, not the first time.”_

_Spencer snapped his phone shut, staring incredulously out the windshield, like he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to figure out his own feelings. “I love him,” he repeated, “Sam, I love you. How hard is that to say? Why did I freeze up?”_

_“Because you didn’t want to be disingenuous?” JJ glanced over at him, catching the tail end of his displeased expression, his scrunched-up nose and pursed lips telling her just how much he disagreed with that answer. So, she threw out another, “You didn’t recognize your feelings? You’re honest to a fault? There’s a bunch of reasons; pick your favorite.”_

_With each justification she gave, his resolve to be angry with himself crumbled a little more. But the guilt remained, and that at least she could sympathize with. It was one thing to forgive missteps against yourself, it was another to forgive hurting someone you loved._

_So, wanting more than anything to wipe that sour look off his face, to get him to a place where they could celebrate that someone he loved, loved him back, JJ clapped him on the knee. “Seriously, I’m sure he’s fine. Besides, you can tell him when you get back.” Paused for a moment at a stop sign, she smiled at Spencer, who gladly smiled back, “You’ve got all the time in the world.”_

“Hey Garcia?”

The tech analyst jumped in her seat, swivelling around to face her. The scarf she had been knitting was clenched in her hands, squashed between her fingers as she looked up at JJ, surprised to see her back so soon. “Yeah?” Garcia asked, craning her neck to see if there was anyone else in the room behind JJ, but she’d come alone, sneaking back into the house as the rest of the team loaded gear into their cars. “What are you still doing here?”

If JJ had an answer for her, she didn’t know how to say it. Least of all in a way that would make sense. She was working off a feeling, a sense of duty to a friend, so instead she ignored Garcia’s question and simply asked, “Did you ever end up finding Sam’s number?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**February 4 th @ 10pm**

Garcia waited until the LEO’s left the room before she started to cry. Not tears of grief or fear this time, but of overwhelming relief.

They found Reid. He was banged up, dehydrated and exhausted, but he was alive. Hotch had bundled him on the jet right after he was cleared for flight, intent on getting him out of that godforsaken state as soon as possible. The paramedics had tried to convince him to let them take Reid to a hospital in Atlanta, but both Hotch and Gideon had insisted he be taken to one in DC, so when he was released, he could expect to go home, to his own bed.

Garcia had been the one to suggest Bethesda General, arguing that it was technically closer to his apartment, despite it being in a different state. Her bosses agreed, trusting her calculations, little knowing she’d fudged the numbers. Whatever, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, and this way, Spence could be taken care of by his sexy doctor beau, something she hoped would immediately lift his spirits.

And put Sam’s mind at ease, too.

She knew when JJ asked her for Sam’s cell number what she planned to do with it, and she knew that it was all kinds of illegal. They weren’t even allowed to notify spouses when an agent was taken captive, killed, or wounded, not until the case was deemed closed. And while the team had been on route to Reid’s location, and for all intents and purposed the case was on its _way_ to being closed, giving JJ Sam’s number (which she wasn’t supposed to have in the first place), knowing she was planning to call him and tell him intimate details of the case they were working, could get them both fired.

Hell, if Strauss found out? It could get the whole _team_ dissolved.

Garcia was a sucker for a good love story, though. And she knew, were somebody she cared for in mortal danger, she would want to know as soon as possible. She should have a _right_ to know.

Bureaucratic red tape be damned.

“There’s a happy ending, at least,” Garcia murmured to her empty room, plucking her knitting up from her lap and getting to work. There was nothing left for her to do but wait for orders, or an escort to the airport, so with the news of Reid’s rescue and her tears freshly wiped, she decided to kick up her feet and relax.

She’d probably need to deconstruct Hankel’s system eventually, she thought as she glared at the wall of monitors. Until then, however, she used them for light to see what she was doing as she perfected her drop stitch, the hazy white light of the now staticky screens providing just enough to see by.

Or at least, they had.

Then they suddenly went black.

Looking up from her work with a frown, Garcia was met with a wall of darkness. She thought they might have lost power, but the wall sconces in the house didn’t waver, and the little green lights next to the monitor screens still shone. Her laptop, which was sitting open next to her, was working just fine… did Hankel’s system restart itself? In the upper left corner of all ten of his monitors, a cursor flashed, waiting for a command prompt. Maybe it had crashed?

She set her knitting down, her fingers poised over the keyboard when, as though it had a mind of its own, text began spewing forth from the cursor at breakneck speed. Prompt after prompt flowed left to right across the screen, and Garcia scarcely blinked trying to keep up with it. Someone was shutting it down, she gathered. Someone hacked into Hankel’s system remotely and was attempting to shut the entire server down.

“ _Shit_ ,” she murmured, lacing her fingers together and cracking her knuckles in preparation for her counter-offensive, “if you think you’re wiping this behemoth clean without my say so, you’re in for a rude awakening, chum.”

They were good, but she was certainly better.

She began to cut them off at every turn, her fingers flying over the keyboard and the room, which had been quiet save for the hum of machinery mere moments before, was suddenly filled with the clacking of keys. They were going after tertiary applications at first, the ones that had allowed Hankel remote access to his victim’s computers, programs that let him stream his murders on-line for everyone and their perverted uncle to see, and then subfolders, digital journals and records Garcia hadn’t the time to glance at yet.

Just when they began to establish a rhythm, this unknown hacker going after something innocuous and Garcia throwing up a roadblock in their path, they shifted gears. “Oh, no you don’t!” she exclaimed, hastening to change her approach as her invisible foe started breaking down the firewalls protecting the system as a whole. They’d given up on destroying each individual piece, and were now attempting to nuke the whole thing.

And suddenly, they got a whole lot better.

“No, no, _no_!” Garcia whined. She couldn’t keep up; they must have called in back up, because they were now doing the work of five people in mere minutes. Try as she might, and as good as she was, she just didn’t have the support they had. If she had been at her desk back in Quantico, she might have stood a chance, but as it was, she could only put up a meagre attempt at stalling them, and in the end they won.

Before Hankel’s mainframe fizzled and sparked, filling the room with the scent of ozone and cooked machinery, a crest appeared in the center of each screen, one she’d never seen before. Garcia leaned forwards, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she squinted at it, trying to commit it to memory: It was a double circle, with a Latin phrase in between, and then a sigil in the centre, which looked to be a star made up of a diamond and two Star Trek communicator symbols. She didn’t recognize the Latin, but she was determined to memorize it, reading it aloud over and over, certain that it would disappear at any moment.

She hated being right. The screens went blank after only a few moments, and she sat back heavily, blowing out a disappointed breath. But as she cast around for a pen and paper, hoping to sketch the symbol she saw while it was fresh in her mind, the cursor came back. It flashed twice, and instead of a command it typed a simple message:

“The armies of Satan shall not prevail against the Alliance of Men and Letters.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” was all she managed to say before the mainframe exploded, the monitors dying once and for all.

 


	3. Formation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience and your kind words! Your comments are always the fuel for my fire, and I love hearing your feedback. Here is a super long chapter, I hope you all enjoy it :)
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to VamCx! Thanks for lighting a fire under my butt, and motivating me to get this darn chapter OUT!
> 
> xoxo  
> JD

**February 2 nd @ 12:10am**

It felt like forever since Sam spent the night in his own bed.

Before Spencer called to say he was off to Georgia on a case, Sam had every intention of heading to Spencer’s place, having spent the night there previously. It wasn’t that he preferred Spencer’s apartment to his own (though the neighbourhood was nicer): it was the astounding lack of privacy at Sam’s place that usually sent them seeking refuge in Spencer’s little loft.

Apparently, when you put three grown men and a teenager together in a single-story apartment, you were inevitably going to run into each other on a near constant basis. Which was great when Sam was on his own: his roommates kept him company when he needed, and the bustle of their home was a perpetual comfort. But when he was looking to spend some quality time with his boyfriend, the space he shared with Kevin, Cas and Jack was the worst possible place to be.

Now that he had the night alone, however, he decided to take advantage of his own space, and when he walked through the door after his shift Sam was greeted like a celebrity. Jack was ecstatic to see him, hurriedly telling him all about his day and the great marks he got on his biology exams, and Kevin wasted no time in inviting him out to dinner. Even when Sam settled down on the couch for a night of studying (because no matter how much cramming he and Spencer did the night before, it never felt like enough), Cas joined him periodically, catching him up on the hospital gossip he’d missed, and quizzing him on hematological disorders.

He’d missed their little shoebox apartment, he mused as he flipped through his cue cards. There was something homey about it, be it the antique furniture rescued from Cas’ grandpa Zachariah after he died, or the constant clutter of clothes, books, and magazines, which made it feel immeasurably lived in. And of course, he couldn’t overstate how nice it was to be around his friends, as even though he worked with them, there was something about seeing them relaxing at home that was comfortable and intimate.

It was little after midnight when Sam felt sleep tugging heavily at the corners of his consciousness. He needed to be at the hospital for nine tomorrow for hematology clinicals (his first ever) and if he didn’t get a good night’s rest, he could guarantee he would be a neurotic mess by the time he walked in the front doors.

Biting back a yawn, he flipped open his phone to check the time, frowning at the missed call notification blinking up at him. When had he received a call? He turned off the volume to study, and apparently forgot to turn it back on. Next to the missed call hieroglyph there was a line with an “s” curved through it. Apparently, he had a message too.

Sam quickly keyed in his password and held the receiver to his ear, smiling when he recognized Spencer’s familiar voice.

“Hey Sam, it’s me. I just got to my room, so I thought I’d wish you goodnight. I was right; this is going to be a long one.” He sounded tired, his voice heavy and Sam could almost see the bags under his poor eyes, but it was still nice to hear him talk, even if it was just over voicemail, “Some guy who—well, more than one, we think—actually… never mind. The less people who hear about this psycho, the better. I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you, and to say good luck on your clinicals tomorrow. You’re going to do great, I know it.” Spencer sighed, and Sam heard a mattress creak. He must be in bed, he thought to himself, and wondered if he was already asleep, when Spencer interrupted him with a sweet, “Goodnight, Sam.”

Clicking set of numbers on his phone, Sam listened to it again.

 _Was this creepy_? It was creepy, he decided, but he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. He couldn’t get enough of the sound of Spencer’s voice, the honied cadence of his softly murmured “Goodnight.” It brought to mind every time he’d said it before: through the phone like this on his way to work. At the door to his apartment as he saw Sam off. In bed, wrapped around Sam like a long-limbed octopus, warm and sleepy and so trusting, so relaxed the mere recollection of it had Sam’s heart clenching affectionately in his chest, both out of longing and of love.

There was that “L” word, again, Sam thought with a rueful smile. He was a little disappointed he hadn’t been able to speak to Spencer before he left, as he wanted to try and smooth things over a little more. He’d really dropped a bomb on Spencer that morning, declaring his love for him so suddenly and out of the blue. And though he hadn’t meant to, hadn’t planned on saying it in that exact moment, without pomp or circumstance but with the self-same gravitas in which he felt it, he didn’t regret it. It was how he felt, and if he’d learned anything during the tumultuous course of their relationship, it was that hiding anything from Spencer was a fool’s errand, one that would eventually blow up in both their faces.

Besides which, he didn’t want to hide it. He was in love. Not only in love, but head over heels for the smartest, sweetest, kindest, and most beautiful person he’d ever had the pleasure of being with. Sam wanted to shout it from the rooftops. He wanted to commission a billboard over the interstate. He wanted to tell every passerby on the street just how much he loved Spencer Reid.

And when Spencer murmured “Goodnight, Sam,” once more in his ear, he decided to hell with feeling like a creep; he wanted to listen to his message again, too.

Halfway through his third listen though, Sam was interrupted by a door creaking open down the hallway. He glanced at the clock, the ticking hands reaffirming that it was far too late for anyone else to be up. Hell, it was too late for _him_ to be up. Sam craned his neck to see who it was, his curiosity instantly peaked.

Kevin was in bed by ten most nights, and while Jack and Cas tended to stay up later, once they were asleep, they were down for the count. He wondered if it was Jack. That would be the most likely culprit; Dean used to sneak out at night when he was a teenager, and though Jack and Dean were cut from entirely different cloths, a fifteen-year-old boy was still just that. Maybe there was a party, Sam mused, sinking further into the couch until only his eyes peered above the backrest, towards the hall. Kids his age did that right? The normal ones, whose fathers didn’t drag them around from state to state murdering people?

He was so certain it was Jack, that when Cas snuck around the corner and into the kitchen, completely oblivious to Sam sitting on the couch, he had to do a double take. He was dressed up, which for Cas meant one of two things: he was going to a PTA meeting, or he was going on a date. Both things that wouldn’t have seemed so odd were he leaving the house at a normal time, and not ten to midnight.

He looked good, though. Tight black jeans and a loose plaid button up that cascaded down from his shoulders, his favorite bejewelled leather jacket and motorcycle boots, Cas was looking like a five-course meal. And judging by the car keys in his hand, he was planning on going out.

So… it _was_ a date then.

Sam flipped his phone shut, watching Cas over the back of the sofa. He was trying to be quiet, tip-toeing to the kitchen to gather his wallet like a teenager creeping past their parents on their way to a house party. Sam had never seen him leave the house so late at night, especially not when he needed to work the next morning. Curiosity got the better of him. “Where do you think you’re going, young man?” Sam asked, his voice louder than expected, and he winced when Cas jumped, whirling around and clapping a hand over his chest, his eyes wide in surprise, “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Cas deflated a little when he saw it was just Sam. “Hey,” he breathed, his voice just a whisper, “I didn’t expect you to be up so late. Are you _still_ studying?”

“I have my hematology clinicals tomorrow, and I want to be prepared.” Sam looked him up and down. “You look amazing,” he said, “where are you going?”

“A date,” Cas said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sam glanced at his watch, “It’s ten past midnight.”

“What’s your point, dad?”

Well, that was unexpectedly aggressive. “No point,” he said, holding up his hands in deference, “Just curious. Have a good night?”

Like flipping a switch, Cas went from frosty to sweet in two seconds flat. “Thank you,” he said, walking over to the couch just to ruffle Sam’s hair affectionately, before heading to the front door and seeing himself out, tossing over his shoulder, “don’t wait up.”  

The click of the lock resounded through the empty apartment as Sam found himself alone once more in the dark living room.

Two hours later, after checking around the house, Sam was kicking himself for staying up so late. There was no way he was going to be at the top of his game in the morning, but as he put himself to bed, he tried to take consolation in that if he fell asleep _right that second,_ he could still get a full four hours. According to Dean, coupled with a shot of whiskey for breakfast, that was all the sleep a grown man could ever need. He tucked himself under the covers of his bed, belatedly realizing he probably should have changed the sheets (when was the last time he’d slept in here?), when he heard the front door click open as someone slinked into the apartment.

He gripped his pillow tightly, suddenly wide awake. Creeping his fingers along the side of his mattress, he skirted the hilt of the switchblade hidden there as his breathing slowed to a crawl, his ears straining to hear where this person was headed. The footsteps carried on down the hall, until the door to the room next to his, Cas’ room, opened and closed, the creak of Cas’ mattress echoing through the walls.

It’s just Cas, he told himself, relaxing once again, though he frowned at his alarm clock. It was three in the morning, and he was just getting home now? “Some date,” he muttered, rolling over onto his other side and letting his eyes slip closed, sleep finally taking him.

**8am**

Dear god, he was tired.

Even Lisa, the sweet, mild mannered barista at the Red Brick was quick to comment on his lethargy, pointing out the bags under his eyes before asking where Spencer was. They’d not frequented her establishment nearly as often as when they first met, and Sam needed to reassure her before he left that they were still together and doing fine. With a promise to get some sleep that night, Lisa had relinquished her guilty hold on him, and Sam fled out onto the street, his feet feeling like cement blocks for how heavy they were.

But despite his exhaustion, there was something very important he needed to do before he got to the hospital. So, on his dazed stroll to the metro Sam pulled his cell phone from his pocket, sipping at his coffee as he dialed Spencer’s number and listened to it ring.

The line clicked, suddenly flooded with the bustle of a busy office, ringing phones and the sound of furious typing rioting into Sam’s unsuspecting ear. “Doctor Reid,” Spencer answered, the rustling paper in the background and his distracted tone telling Sam he was in the middle of a project.

“So formal.”

“Oh!” A piece of paper warbled as it was slapped down on a table, and a chair scraped across a linoleum floor as Spencer stood. “Hey, you,” he said, the background noise fading into the distance as he retreated to a quieter space, “Good morning.”

“Morning, Bambi,” Sam said, “How’d you sleep?”

“I didn’t.” A door closed, and Spencer’s voice was clear as a bell, “you?”

“Barely four hours.”

“Serves you right for studying so late.”

Sam smiled. “How’d you know?”

“We have met before, right?”

Chuckling, Sam ducked into a covered bus stop, out of the way of the passersby as they hurried down the stairs to the trains. He’d lose Spencer if he went underground, and he didn’t trust himself to navigate the busy station with a full coffee anyways, not in his current, sleep inebriated state. Instead, he sat down on the chilly wooden bench, kicking his legs out and crossing them at the ankles, letting his eyes slip shut as he changed the subject and asked, “Rough case?”

“Yes.” Spencer sighed, a chair creaking as he sat down, probably slouching in a way that would have earned him a jab to the middle of his back, were Sam there with him. “You don’t know how nice it is to hear your voice,” he said softly, and Sam beamed, the corners of his eyes crinkling at his warm, honest affectation.

“Happy to oblige,” he said.  

“JJ told me a funny story yesterday.”

“She did?” Sam asked, unfazed by the quick change of subject, well accustomed by now to Spencer’s frenetic patterns of conversation.

“Uh-huh,” Spencer hummed, and Sam’s ears pricked up. He sounded a little too pleased with himself for his comfort. “Something about her running into you at the supermarket, and you upending a display of tomatoes.”

“Oh no,” Sam ran a hand down the side of his face, “I forgot about that.”

“Forgot, or blocked it from your memory?”

“Probably the latter.”

“Is that why I had to hear about it from Jayje?”

“I didn’t think my pride could take a second hit.”

Spencer laughed lightly. “Well, now she’s latched on to the idea of my cooking for her,” he said, “so I was wondering if you’d mind having her for dinner sometime? Just her and the two of us?”

“Would I mind?” Was he honestly asking permission for them to have dinner with a friend? “Spence,” Sam said, “don’t be ridiculous. I’d love to.”

“Okay.” Sam could hear his smile, could picture it growing wider and brighter as he processed his answer, “Yeah, that’s great.”

A sudden burst of noise over the phone startled him out of his skin, and the old woman who was sitting on the bench next to him glared punitively as Sam jumped, his coffee jostling dangerously in his hand. “That doesn’t sound good,” he said, smiling apologetically at the woman, who thawed slowly, leaning back against the wall of the bus shelter, and averting her authoritarian scowl to a couple of rowdy dogs across the street.

“It’s not.” Spencer said, quickly standing and opening the door to the room, flooding the line with a flurry of voices and hurried footfalls, “Sorry Sam, I’ve got to go.”

“Good luck.”

“You, too.”

**10am**

Somewhere between diagnosing the cause Mrs. Luschek’s anemia and ordering an ABG for Mr. Dudarec, Sam was finally gaining momentum. Despite it being his first day there alone, he felt confident sitting in his clinic office, proud to finally be allowed to wear a white jacket and not get made fun of by his attending. He was already halfway through his dictated notes, too. It was still early, and he was hesitant to chalk the day up as a success just yet, but his good mood was chasing away the dregs of his sleepiness, and he was certain only an absolute catastrophe could throw him off his groove.

Which explained why, when he caught the familiar scent of Aqua di Parma wafting through the corridor, Sam’s heart sank to the floor. And when Crowley stuck his head through the open door to his office, Sam knew that was the final nail in the coffin that was his previously good morning.

“Ah,” Crowley said, slithering in through the cracked office door, and shutting it soundlessly behind him, “there you are, Moose.” The heels of his shiny, near reflective leather shoes clacked against the tile floor, and when he leaned against the examination table, Crowley smoothed out his suit, frowning at an imperceptible wrinkle in his lapel before covering it with his jacket.

In the years he’d been employed at Bethesda, Sam could count the amount of times he’d been alone with the chief of medicine on one hand. He normally never bothered to grace the interns with his presence, save to take them on the occasional rounds, and the only nurses he felt worth his time were Missouri and Cas. He avoided the lower level doctors like the plague, and only interacted with the specialists and attendings directly, spending most of his time sequestered in his office, squeezing the life-savings out of hospital donors and doing god knows what else. When last he felt inclined to speak with a resident, it was to make Anna cry for something as simple as requesting time off for a wedding.

Her _own_ wedding.

Simply put, this wasn’t a welcome visit, and Sam didn’t have high hopes as to the outcome.

“Sir?” he asked, folding his hands in his lap to keep from wringing them nervously.

The chief of medicine placed a chart down on Sam’s desk, not bothering to look at him. **“** I’ve got a patient in the ward that needs your immediate attention,” he said, examining his fingernails.

“I—really?” Sam looked down at the folder, then back up at Crowley. “I’m sorry, sir but I think there’s been a mistake. I’ve got a full roster, and I’m not even on the ward today. I’m scheduled in hematology clinicals till five.”

Crowley clicked his tongue. “No mistake at all,” he said, tapping the folder, then gesturing for Sam to follow him as he walked from the room without another word.

Sam scrambled out of his chair, darting out of the office and forgetting the chart in his haste, forcing him to double back to grab it. He jogged after Crowley, shrugging apologetically at the clinic nurse when she called after him. Crowley was already at the elevator when he caught up to him, and if he had a job for Sam, then what could he do? He was his boss, after all. The elevator ride to the fourth floor was deathly silent, and Sam didn’t dare break it with idle chatter. Instead, he flipped open the chart for the patient he didn’t have time for, and did his best impression of Spencer, attempting to absorb as much information as he could before they made it to the patient’s door.

The more he read, the more his mood sank.

This patient was a nightmare.

Crowley opened the glass door to the patient room without ceremony, the curtains rattling and the patient jumping in surprise as the two doctors barged in. He stopped at the foot of the bed, not bothering to introduce himself before turning to Sam with an uncomfortable smile that didn’t suit his face. “Mr. Murphy was initially admitted for routine gallbladder surgery,” he said, his back to the patient he was speaking about as though he weren’t even there, “since then, he’s presented with a low-grade fever and fatigue. He is now complaining of dizziness, headache, and coldness in his extremities.”

“Good morning, Mr. Murphy.” Sam said with a smile, waving at his patient over Crowley’s shoulder. Passing the chart to Crowley, he sat down on the edge of the bed and readied his stethoscope, instructing Mr. Murphy to breathe normally. “I’m hearing arrhythmia,” he said, looping his stethoscope back around his neck, “when was the last time he received a full physical?” Grabbing the chart back, he flipped it back open, leafing through the pages, “Neurology, rheumatology, pulmonology… Doctor McCleod, he’s been bounced between every specialist in the hospital!”

Like a bloodhound prowling for a lawsuit, the instant ‘bounced’ passed Sam’s lips, Crowley glared at him, snapping the chart shut and waving Sam back into the hallway. Sam sighed as he followed after him, having the sense to shut the door before saying, “With all due respect sir, I don't understand how you can just drop this guy in my lap and expect me to make him a top priority. Like I said, I’ve—”

Crowley scoffed, waving his hand in front of his face like Sam’s objections were a bad smell he could waft away. “Got a bug up your ass about something, save it.” He held the chart up and tapped it against Sam’s chest, “Mr. Murphy back there is a major hospital benefactor. And—now, stop me if this is getting too complex for you, meat for brains—it's a lot harder to write a big, fat check if you're dead.”

 _Meat for brains, that’s a new one._ “But if no one else in this hospital knows what’s wrong with him, then what do you want me to do?”

Crowley’s expression darkened and alarm bells started going off in Sam’s head. He stepped back with a gulp as Crowley’s upper lip curled, the fluorescent lights gleaming from his incisors as he bared his teeth like a dog, his next words quiet, but cutting.

“You could stop whining, find out what's wrong with him, and treat it, for starters.” He stepped in close, and while Sam’s superior height put him well above his superior’s head, he was still quaking in his Nike’s, cowering internally as he suddenly found himself on the receiving end of one of Crowley’s trademark sneers. “What do I even pay you for, Lurch? Isn’t this your job? Is that ‘MD’ on your lanyard, or do I need my eyes checked?” he hissed, “I don’t bloody care what you do! Just figure it out, and don’t you dare try to leave before he’s on the mend, or I promise, I’ll give you something to bitch about.”

Sam couldn’t manage any real words, so he just nodded dumbly, taking the chart from Crowley’s hand, and averting his eyes when the chief calmly sauntered away, as though he hadn’t just chewed the life out of one of him. Instead, Sam looked over at the orderly who had been cowering behind a door at the end of the hall, now glancing around the corner to check if the coast was clear. He spotted Anna peeking out of a patient’s room, who smiled sympathetically at Sam as he collapsed back against the wall in relief.

“Dang it,” Missouri muttered from the nurse’s station, “Meg! Did you catch any of that? What’d I miss?”

“Just Bullwinkle shitting his pants,” Meg cackled as Sam wandered over to the nurse’s station.

“Hardy har,” he muttered, re-reading the chart, and leaning against the counter, “you’re a freaking riot, Meg.”

“Hey Clarence,” she called over her shoulder, “did you see that?”

From the other side of the counter, Cas looked up from the computer he was working at, and Sam had to do a double take. He looked exhausted. Worse than Sam, if that were even possible, the dark bags under his eyes standing in stark contrast to the sunglass adorned pineapples on his scrub shirt. “Hey,” he said, ignoring Meg entirely as he frowned at Sam, “what are you doing up here?”

“Crowley turfed me a priority patient,” Sam said, pushing the chart aside as he found something much more interesting to focus on, “You look like shit.”

“Aren’t you sweet.” Cas rolled his eyes as he rolled his chair across the floor, grabbing a Red Bull from the mini fridge and cracking it open, “You got Mr. Murphy, huh?”

Sam nodded.

“He’s done so many laps around this hospital,” Cas said, taking a sip of his drink, “he should be due to collect his two-hundred dollars any second now.”

“The last four doctors didn’t bother with a physical, or a CBC.” Sam crossed his arms and leaned over the counter, scrutinizing Cas’ face, “Seriously, what time did you get home last night?”

“Quarter to ‘mind-your-business,’” he snapped back, and Sam held his hands up, admitting defeat. Reaching for the chart, Cas didn’t bother standing up to get it. Instead, he pulled it over the edge with his fingertips and let it fall into his waiting hand, the can of energy drink not leaving his lips the whole time. “Looks like too many cooks in the kitchen,” Cas said, lazily reading the chart, “They probably figured the doctor before them had been there, done that, and didn’t think to check. You want me to order one?”

“That would be amazing, thank you.” Sam tapped his fingers off the counter, asking, “He’s only been here four days, why is Crowley shuffling him around so much?”

Cas shrugged and handed back the chart. “He pulls in the big bucks,” he said, “the pediatric ward is named after him, and he’s the reason we got that fancy new CT last year. My guess is when he sat in a ward too long, Crowley would start getting impatient and flip him to someone else. Small wonder things are falling through the cracks.”

“Here’s hoping we can figure this out quick.” His pager beeped loudly. “Because I don’t have time for this.”

Cas passed the phone over to Sam. “I’ll get Andy on that CBC.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Cas.” Sam picked up the receiver and started to dial the department that paged him, when a thought occurred. “Could we get echo as well?” he asked, “I want to confirm that arrhythmia.”

Cas nodded, his back already turned as he paged Andy, “You got it, Thidwick.”

“And maybe an NCV?” Sam asked, clapping his hand over the receiver.

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“Please?”

Cas give him a half-hearted glare and a mock salute. “Sir, yes sir.”

**5pm**

Sam had only managed to get back to the clinic when Cas paged him, letting him know Mr. Murphy’s results were in. He also informed him that when he saw them, he was going to be livid.

And as usual, Cas was right.

“Freaking McCleod,” Sam muttered to the empty change room, balling up his scrubs and tossing them into the bottom of his bag. He had Sam all bent out of shape, screamed at him in front of the entire ward, and for what? “Anemia,” he huffed, zipping up his sweater, “freaking anemia. And it’s his fault!”

An unassuming intern stepped through the changeroom doors, caught sight of Sam slamming his locker shut, and walked right back out.

It was ridiculous. The poor guy was bounced around the hospital for four days straight post surgery, and all because Crowley decided the doctors in his charge (hospital specialists, no less) weren’t working fast enough. If he’d just—

Sam groaned, pulling his bag over his shoulders, and forcing himself to take a deep, calming breath. It was five o’clock, he was heading home, and he wouldn’t need to come back till the next morning. He was wiped, and the sound of spending the rest of his day reading on the couch was like music to his ears. _Let it go_ , he thought to himself, opening the locker room doors…

And walking straight into Dr. McCleod.

He looked even more irate then when he left Sam the first time. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Crowley demanded.

“Home.” Sam said, “My shift’s over.”

“And Mr. Murphy?”

“What about him?”

Crowley balled his hand up into a fist and knocked it against a nearby trolley, startling the orderly that had been sorting equipment on it. “I specifically told you not to leave this hospital until you figured out what was wrong with him!”

“I did.” Sam submitted his paperwork and everything… what was Crowley expecting, an oral report? “His CBC showed he was extremely B-12 anemic, Hgb was 110 grams per litre and he was macrocytic. I ran an NCV to check for nerve damage and started him immediately on injections.”

Crowley frowned, his anger sobering into concern, “Did you determine the cause?”

“I called Kali in for a gastro consult, but it appears he was suffering from pernicious anemia from the post-surgical antibiotics.”

“Any lasting damage?”

“Kali’s still running some tests, but so far, no.” Sam couldn’t determine if this was honest to goodness worry Crowley was showing, and he didn’t want to push his luck. But still, he couldn’t help put out his reassurance, just in case, “He’s doing much better.”

“It’s been days since his admission,” Crowley snapped, “how in the _hell_ did this go unnoticed so long?”

“Well, given how quickly he was being bounced around, a lot of his doctors were skipping basic tests, assuming his initial results were the most viable, and that someone would have ordered a re-test if necessary.” Before he could stop himself, Sam blurted out, “My guess is, if he were left in the hands of the surgical department for the duration of his recovery, someone would have paged the hematologist and they’d have caught it immediately.”

He didn’t realize he’d said anything wrong until the orderly, who was still sorting angiocaths two feet to their right, audibly gasped. Sam glanced over at him, his brows tented in confusion, unsure if he was reacting to what he’d said or to something he was working on. But when the shocked orderly met his gaze, his mouth agape and his expression terrified, Sam knew he’d fucked up royally. The orderly sharply jerked his head in Crowley’s direction, silently mouthing for him to watch out, to look away before Sam got him in shit too, but the last thing Sam wanted to do was look back at his boss.

Because he could feel the shift in the air around him. And when he had no choice but to return his attention to Crowley, Sam could see the change on his face. He watched it happen. One moment, he was irate, but still amicable. But in the next, his expression darkened, his lips folding together in a firm, menacing line. “My, my,” he said, crossing his arms, “are you blaming Mr. Murphy’s condition on _me_ , Doctor Campbell?”

 _Crap._ “No, sir.” Sam said, his voice creaking nervously. His palms began to sweat as he rooted for a way out, but to no avail. Why the hell had he said anything? That had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever said aloud, him and his big, dumb mouth! “I’m not blaming anybody.” He’d certainly been blaming Crowley _in his head_ , because it _was_ definitively his fault that Mr. Murphy was ill, but he wasn’t supposed tell him that. “Mr. Murphy’s on the mend now,” Sam said in a last-ditch effort, squaring himself for the scolding of a lifetime, “and that’s what counts, right?”

He expected yelling. He expected spittle flying from Crowley lips and a pointed finger jabbing him in the chest. What he didn’t expect was for Crowley’s fury to quickly sober as he told him to, “Change back into your scrubs.”

The orderly made a pained noise, and this time, Crowley fixed a heady glare on him, shutting him right up and sending him scurrying down the hall, his cart in tow.

Sam blinked owlishly. “Pardon me?”

“You’re on-call tonight.”

 _No way._ “What?” Sam asked helplessly, “Since when?!”

“Since right this second,” Crowley said, waving his hand dismissively towards the locker room doors, “get back in your scrubs and head to handover.”

“No,” Sam moaned, so tired and disappointed that he didn’t particularly care if he sounded like a bratty child, being told to go to their room, “no way, that’s not fair!”

But Crowley held his ground, and if Sam weren’t so afraid of him, so disheartened and exhausted, he might have been impressed instead. Instead of screaming and shouting and threatening ineffectually, he’d found the one thing Sam wanted more than anything in that moment, _to go home_ , and he snatched it out from under him. He knew, somehow, that all the reprimanding in the world wouldn’t be enough to get under Sam’s skin, that he could take the verbal abuse and then some, shrugging it off once he left the hospital grounds. So instead, he took a different route, and managed to hit Sam where it really hurt.

To make him work a call shift in advance of his call shift the very next day, all while he was running on fumes, was nothing short of torturous.

It was brilliant, really.

It would even have made his _dad_ proud.

“Do you think I give a shit what’s fair to you?” Crowley raised his brows, waiting for Sam to give him an answer so he could shut him down. “No, that’s right. I don’t,” he said when Sam silently shook his head, “Hop to it, you’ve got a long night ahead of you.”

There was no point in arguing, nor was he given an opportunity. Crowley was already walking away from him by the time Sam shook himself out of his stupor. Glancing at his watch, he came to the glum realization that he only had twenty minutes to get up to the ICU and grab a call room key before handover, and after that, he’d have at least eight hours to go before he could even attempt to sleep. So, he changed quickly; he’d be damned if he was going to carry his shit around all night, just because he didn’t get dressed in time.

When Cas found him, Sam was struggling with remembering his code and fighting with the call room vending machine. “What are you still doing here?” Cas asked, reaching past Sam and keying in the right passcode. Missouri wasn’t far behind; she could pinpoint gossip a mile away, and from the looks of her hustling down the hallway, she wasn’t about to miss out on another chapter of the Sam and Crowley saga.

She managed to make it just in time for Sam’s key to fall into the receiving slot. He hardly registered Cas’ question, grabbing it on autopilot. “Why are you still in your scrubs?” Cas asked, looking over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, which just ticked to half past five, “Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

Sam frowned at the key in his hand. It was for room IC-018. _Was that the one with the bed that his feet hung off the edge of?_ Cas snapped in front of his eyes, bringing him back to the present. “Crowley’s got me on call,” Sam said, then returned to scrutinizing the key. _Or was that IC-090?_

“No.” Cas said disbelievingly, “Why?”

“I mouthed off to him about Mr. Murphy.”

Cas shook his head and glanced pointedly at Missouri, who nodded her agreement to the sentiment in Cas’ gaze, “That’s ridiculous.”

“Jesus, why didn’t I get more sleep last night?” Sam groaned, rubbing his hands over his eyes to chase the haze of exhaustion away, “I’m supposed to be on call tomorrow night too, this is a freaking nightmare.”

“It’s bullshit, is what it is.” Snorting, Cas leaned back against the key dispenser, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against its panel. He was still looking at Missouri, the two of them silently conversing, before he shook his head and declared, “No, you know what? This isn’t happening. Grab your shit, turn in your key and finish your paperwork—I’m going to have a word with Crowley.”

Sam tried to stop him, reaching out to catch his arm with a weak, “Cas, you don’t—” but it was to no avail. Missouri sidled alongside him and watched as Cas retreated down the hallway, a sea of nurses, orderlies, patients and even doctors parting in his wake. “That walk means business,” she muttered.

“No kidding.” Sam had seen that walk enough in his time at Bethesda to know that when you spotted it, you got the hell out of the way. He pursed his lips, wondering if Cas was going to make things worse, or if he was really going to perform a miracle. “What are the odds he manages to change Crowley’s mind?” he asked.

Missouri quirked a brow. “Cas?” she hummed, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “I’d start wrapping up your paperwork, kid.”

“No way. Crowley’s as stubborn as they come, especially when his pride’s on the line.”

“Were it anyone else, I’d say they don’t have a chance in hell.” Missouri held up her pinky finger, grinning slyly at him, “But Cas’ got him wrapped around his little finger. Always has.”

She wasn’t lying. Cas got away with so much when it came to Crowley, “Why does he cut him so much slack?”

“Cas and Doctor McCleod go way back,” Missouri said, shuffling over to the nurse’s station to answer the ringing phone, “old fixtures in this place. And that ain’t even accounting for the rumors.”

 _Rumors?_ “What rumors?” He hadn’t heard any rumors. He wanted to ask her to elaborate, but she’d already snapped up the phone, her back turned to him in clear dismissal, and he knew he shouldn’t interrupt.

Instead, he hovered awkwardly near the counter, not sure if he should just head to handover (which had already started) or continue to wait. He kept his head down and his eyes averted, trying to avoid being roped into a menial task by one of the many nurses circling him like vultures, until one of them stopped in front of him, their fluorescent sneakers identifying them before they even spoke. “What’s the verdict, Cas?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

“You can leave.”

Sam squinted at his shoes, not quite believing he was serious, “Really?”

Missouri covered the receiver of the phone with her hand, saying, “Told you.”

Cas nodded, “Yeah, go home.”

“No, I—”

His pager beeped, interrupting him mid protest. Cas reached over the counter to grab him the phone, his eyes never leaving Sam’s as he passed it to him, and Sam dialed blindly. The phone rang twice, and all the while Cas just stood there staring, a peculiarly pleased look on his face. When the line clicked, Sam didn’t wait for a greeting before introducing himself, “Hi, this is Sam from Team F returning a page—”

Crowley cut him off mid spiel, simply saying “Get out,” before hanging up the phone.

Sam pulled the receiver away from his ear and blinked at it. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

Cas reached up and ruffled his hair, basking in Sam’s flabbergasted awe for only a moment before telling him, “See you tonight, Bullwinkle.”

**7pm**

There was a notepad that Sam kept in his breast pocket everyday. Without fail, he’d swap it from dirty shirt to clean shirt, from street clothes to scrubs, and he never left the house without it. It was his safety net, a place where he took stock of everything important in his life, but that wasn’t imminently memorable. It was where he jotted down different diseases and conditions to study, important dates and appointments, as well as stuff he might need to stock up on later.

And it had become a ritual of its own that when he came home, he would make himself a coffee, sit down at the kitchen table and remind himself of everything he found pertinent during the day. He had a bit of a delay coming home from the hospital, choosing to go straight to the gym after to work out some of his frustration from the Crowley debacle, and since he was out, decided to stop at the book store as well. So, when he finally took up his usual seat at the kitchen table and flipped through his notepad, it was already dark and fast approaching midnight.

He sat with a pen next to Jack and his steaming cup of coffee, scratching off the names of two books he’d bought at the store. “You know,” Jack said, not looking up from his history textbook, “You can do all that in your phone, now.”

“Do what?” Sam asked as he cracked open one of his new books, highlighting the rheumatological disorder’s he’d decided to study earlier that day.

Jack tapped his beat-up notepad, “This. There’s an app for that.”

Sam wrinkled his nose and shook his head, “No way.” His phone could barely be trusted not to drop a call, much less hold his precious notes.

Smiling in that insufferable, smug way only a teenager is capable of, Jack shrugged his shoulders and went back to studying, beating the end of his pen off his textbook in a discordant rhythm. “Whatever you say, Doctor Luddite.”

“I like taking physical notes.” Sam tried in his defense, full well knowing it would be of no use. “Besides, those things are ruining your generation,” he said, capturing Jack’s attention as he glanced up without moving his head, studying him from underneath his brow, “You don’t even know how to write in cursive.”

And he lost him. Jack rolled his eyes so hard Sam worried they might get stuck in the back of his head. “Typing is faster,” he said, “besides, you don’t write in cursive either.” Pulling Sam’s notepad over, he pointed to one of Sam’s hastily scrawled messages, “See? And even your printing sucks.”

“Doctor’s are supposed to have illegible handwriting, it’s in the job description.” Sam snatched his notepad back, squinting as he tried to decipher his own writing, “This—what even is this?”

“It’s proving my point,” Jack told him and smiled good-naturedly as he leaned over, “and I think that second word is birthday? Barry’s birthday?”

Jack looked up at him questioningly, and Sam dropped his head into his hand with a groan. “ _Bobby’s_ birthday,” he said, checking his watch, “thank god I didn’t miss it.”

“Are you going to call him?” Jack asked as Sam stood up from the table with his phone. He nodded, and Jack laughed, “Why? He’s going to hate the attention!”

“He’s just going to need to deal with it,” Sam said, dialing Bobby’s home number.

The line rang and Sam hopped over the back of the couch, sitting cross legged and waiting for Bobby to pick up. Or Ellen, but knowing her, she’d been expecting him to call all day and had been leaving Bobby to answer all their calls in the interim. Which was probably why, when Bobby finally _did_ pick up, he sounded gruffer than usual. “Well,” he said, “look what the cat dragged in.”

Sam grinned, “Hey, Bobby.”

“What do you want?”

“Can’t I call to wish you happy birthday?”

“I’d rather you not.” He sounded aggravated, but that wasn’t new. Sam still had no trouble picking the affection out in his rumbly admonishment, “How’s it going, you idjit?”

That was a million-dollar question. Like Dean, Bobby had an uncanny ability to make Sam want to spill his guts, but it was his birthday, and nothing was seriously wrong. So, to spare him his petty workplace drama, he simply said, “I had a hell of a day, but thankfully its over. I’m just studying, now.”

“I thought you were done with school, whatcha still studying for?”

“Hate to break it to you, but the studying never stops.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, glancing over the back of the couch at Jack, who was looking back at him balefully, buried in his own pile of textbooks, “I’ve got rheumatology clinicals coming up, so I need to refresh my memory.”

“Lucky duck,” Bobby grumbled. There was a rustle in the background, then Bobby speaking to someone else on his end, before he asked, “so, what else is new? I got Ellen breathing down my neck looking for the latest, so clearly you’re holding on to something juicy.”

Ellen _was_ hanging around for a reason, and Sam could hazard a guess to what it was. Ever since he brought Kevin home for thanksgiving in their sophomore year at Stanford, he and Jo had gotten along swimmingly, and Kevin had taken up the mantle of being Jo’s man on the inside when it came to Sam’s personal life. And since Jo and Ellen were thick as thieves, it wasn’t a stretch to assume she’d passed along to her mom that Sam was seeing someone.

There was a pregnant pause on the line as Bobby waited for him to respond, intermittently shushing Ellen when she tried to interrupt. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want to tell them… quite the contrary. But as always, there was an undercurrent of hesitancy accompanying it, one he wished wasn’t there, on account of it being Spencer. Never in his life had he ever thought that dating a man would be any different from a woman, and on the surface, it wasn’t. But then again, he’d never had to come out to his family before.

It was in moments like these he could sympathize with Spencer’s inability to tell his teammates about them.

 _Here goes_ , Sam thought to himself. _Now or never._ “I, uh—” he coughed into his first, stumbling over his words before sputtering out the rest, “I kind of met someone.”

There was a loud smack from Bobby’s end of the phone, most likely Ellen’s palm connecting with his shoulder, and Ellen’s voice clear as ever, shouting, “I told you, Bobby!”

“Yeah, I just put you on speaker.”

“Who?!” Ellen demanded.

Sam took a deep breath, trying not to think about how much easier it would be to have this conversation if Kevin had just come out and told them everything. If he was going to be a gossip, why the hell couldn’t he do it right? “His name is Spencer Reid,” Sam said, biting the bullet, “He’s a doctor, but not a medical one. We’ve been dating for four months, now.”

After only a momentary pause, Ellen asked, “And?”

Sam blinked. “Just and?” he asked, a smile already tugging at his lips at the simplicity of her acceptance, “You’re not freaked out that he’s a guy, or anything?”

“Please,” she scoffed.

“We wouldn’t give a shit if he was a space alien, so long as he was halfway normal and nice.” Bobby said, and Sam’s heart gave a tiny thrill, feeling so immeasurably lucky to have a family like this one. But his silence came across as unnerving, and Bobby asked again, hesitantly, “He is right?”

“He’s incredibly nice, and nowhere close to normal.”  That much was the truth, and Sam was reminded that there was still more he needed to tell them about Spencer. This part however was going to be the hardest, and it wasn’t going to be like ripping off a Band-Aid. This time, they were going to have questions.

“Well, fifty-fifty ain’t bad, I guess.”

He just needed to spit it out. Bobby and Ellen both sounded incredibly pleased for him, and there was no time like the present, right? Sam braced himself for the worst, and said (or attempted to say), “He’s a profiler for the FBI—”

Bobby cut him off immediately. “What!?” he bellowed through the receiver, so loud that he startled Jack across the room, who looked up from his books in concern.

“Oh, Sam,” Ellen muttered, her voice dripping with apprehension.

“No, no it’s okay.” Sam had expected this and, ever the boy scout, he came prepared. “He knows about dad and everything, and he’s cool with it. More than that, he’s… supportive. He listens, he gets it, and I mean, why wouldn’t he?” He was willing himself not to gush, truly. But it was no use, “He’s sweet, and kind, and guys, he’s so smart. He’s four years younger than me and he already has three PhD’s.”

“Holy mackerel.”

“He sounds like a nerd,” Bobby grunted.  

Sam’s throat constricted, his nerves singing as he waited for Bobby to either approve, or tear Sam a new one. “He is,” he said confidently.  

Bobby hummed, and over the line there was a rustle of paper, and the crack of a beer cap popping from a bottle. Outside of Bobby gulping down the first few sips of his beer, there was silence from either end, neither Sam nor Ellen daring to breathe as Bobby deliberated his next words. Sighing, Bobby placed his beer back down, before slicing the tension in two with a snide, “Then he must be a match made in heaven.”

Sam let out a gigantic breath, chuckling in exquisite relief. That was a Bobby Singer stamp of approval if ever he’d heard one.

“Bobby!” Another smack, this one followed by a gripe from Bobby. “How’d you meet?” Ellen asked.

“At a coffee shop. I noticed he was reading books in under ten minutes, and I couldn’t keep my attention off him.”

“Send me pictures.”

“Ellen! Jesus!”

“What?” Ellen asked, “I want to see how cute he is.”

“Well, actually,” Sam said, smiling at Jack over the back of the couch, unable and unwilling to keep his giddiness to himself, “that’s the other reason I’m calling.”

“I knew it wasn’t to wish me happy freaking birthday, ya ingrate.”

“I’m thinking of getting a new car,” Sam said, “on recommendation from my therapist.”

“You want one of my old clunkers, you gotta come get it yourself. But you’re welcome to ‘em.”

“Thank you. Would it be okay to bring Spencer with me, maybe? For a visit?”

Bobby huffed, “Damn, this _is_ serious.”

“Yes, yes!” Ellen exclaimed, clapping her hands excitedly, “Bring him over, let us meet him! I’ll get Jo home, we can make a night of it.”

Jesus, he loved these two. “Okay, awesome.” Sam stood up from the couch, walking over to the kitchen table to write a reminded in his notepad, “I’ll hammer out a date when he gets home, and let you know.”

“Anytime,” Ellen said, “it’s not like this old coot is going anywhere.”

“You gotta be nice to me,” Bobby objected, “it’s my birthday.”

Jack could hear them loud and clear apparently, as he tried to stifle a laugh behind his hand. Sam grinned at him, nudging him with his elbow and was about to tease him about eavesdropping when he was interrupted by his phone beeping, signaling another call coming through.

 _Please, please don’t let it be the hospital_ , he pleaded with anyone who was listening. “Hey guys,” he said, cutting into Ellen and Bobby’s playful banter, “someone’s on the other line, I need to go.”

“Don’t forget to tell me when you’re visiting!” Ellen said.

“Goodnight guys, I’ll talk to you soon.”

“You better,” Bobby said, before ending the call.

Notepad in hand, Sam meandered back over to the couch, changing lines. “Doctor Campbell,” he answered, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and sinking into the cushions.

Amidst the rumble of a car engine, there was a familiar laugh that came over the line, one he hadn’t heard since Christmas, “So formal.”

Sam sat up straight. “Dean?”

“In the flesh,” Dean said, “well, on the other end of a telephone wire.”

“I’m on my cell.”

“Whatever.” Tires squealed in the background, and the engine cut out, replaced by the rhythmic clicking of hazard lights. “How’s it going, Sammy?”

“Good,” Sam said tentatively, unsure (as he always was when his brother called out of the blue) what this conversation was going to entail, “I was just talking to Bobby and Ellen.”

“How are the newlyweds doing?”

“Dude, they’ve been married for six years.”

“All the same to me.”

“They’re doing well.” Looking over the back of the couch, Sam noticed Jack (and his books) had disappeared. He must have made himself scarce when he heard Dean’s name. “I’m going to head up to Sioux Falls with Spencer, hopefully in the next month.”

“Showing off the boyfriend?” Dean asked, “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Sam said, “I kind of—I told him I loved him.”

Dean whistled appreciatively

“I know.”

“ _Damn_.”

“I _know_.”

“I’m happy for you,” Dean said, and Sam could hear in his voice that he meant it, “and I’m sure Ellen is just dying to get her mitts on him.”

“She certainly is.”

“Where’s your other half tonight?”

“On a case in Georgia.”

He’d blurted that out without thinking, but Dean caught it right away. “What case?” he demanded, suddenly sober and serious, “Is he a cop?”

Sam winced. “Don’t get mad.”

“Is he a _fed_?”

“Yes—”

“Jesus _Christ_!”

“He’s with the BAU—”

“What the _hell_ Sam!?”

“And he knows about you and dad.” Dean clicked his tongue disapprovingly, “But he doesn’t care. Or, he cares but it hasn’t changed anything. He gets it, Dean…” Sam implored him, “he understands.”

Dean was quiet for a long minute, and Sam willed himself to stay calm, the clicking of the hazard lights ratcheting up his nerves with every second that passed. Finally, Dean sighed. “He does, huh?” he said, some of the ire melting from his voice, “And he knows everything?”

“Yes.”

“And he treats you good?”

“Better than good.”

“I still don’t like it,” Dean said, and while that felt like a knife to the gut, Sam tried not to take it personally, “but it’s your life. And I gotta admit, you seem happy. You sound lighter than I’ve heard you sound in—jeez, forever, man.”

“I am happy,” Sam said sincerely, “Spencer makes me happy.”

“Well, lets do this right then.” There was a shuffling sound in the background, metal grinding against metal and the whir of a radio frequency, “whereabouts in Georgia is he?”

“I don’t know.” Sam frowned. What was he up to? “Atlanta, probably. Why?”

More whirring, some crackling, and suddenly, a tinny voice that wasn’t Dean’s. “All units, please be advised,” the voice said, immediately recognizable through their cadence as a cop, “The feds are unable to give us location, but are working under the assumption Mrs. Clyde is still alive. We’ve instructed dispatch to sound any 911 call matching their profile on every channel. Be vigilant, don’t hesitate. I want every unit converging on that location as soon as it comes over the wire. Out.”

“Was that the Atlanta PD?” Sam demanded, his hand clenching reflexively around his cell phone, “Do you have a read on the Atlanta PD!?”

“Chill out,” Dean said, and turned off the radio, “I’ve got lines on all major metropolitan police departments.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Gotta cover my tracks to keep them out of my hair. It’s the only useful thing dad ever taught me.”

“Do you think that’s the case Spence is on?”

“Sounds like it.” He paused, tapping his fingers off the steering wheel, and when Dean spoke again, he was unexpectedly hesitant, “You watched the news lately?”

“I try to avoid it when Spencer’s out in the field.”

“Good,” Dean said, “’cause this one— it hits close to home.”

Sam shook his head, “I don’t want to know.”

“Like I said: good.” Coughing away his concern, as Dean always was allergic to feelings, he changed the subject with artful ease. “Anyways,” he said, “I’m not just calling for the hell of it, even though I treasure these talks of ours…”

Smiling ruefully, Sam grabbed his pad of paper and asked, “How much do you need?”

“Two hundred.”

“I’ll wire you four tomorrow morning on my way to work.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean mumbled, “You’re really saving my bacon.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sam said, scratching a haphazard $400 into his notes, “just—promise me you’re being safe?”

“Always. You don’t gotta worry about that.”

“Sure.” Man, did he wish that was true. “Anyways, I should get back to studying. Good night, Dean.”

“Night, Sammy.”

**8pm**

Spencer picked up the phone on the first ring, “I was wondering when you’d call.”

Chuckling, Sam stretched back into his mattress. His room was quiet, his sheets were cool against his bare skin, and it was well past when he should be getting to sleep, but as he lay there in the dark, he found he missed the sound of Spencer’s sleepy breathing beside him. “Am I getting that predictable?” he asked with a smile.

“Maybe,” Spencer said, and Sam could practically see the smile on his face, his full lips parted and his cheeks dimpled, “but it’s a welcome predictability. How was your day?”

Sam sighed. “The usual: busy, stressful and satisfying. You?”

“I snapped at Gideon.”

“What?” Sam sat up on his elbows. That was the last thing he expected.

“I lost my mind, Sam,” Spencer bemoaned, “Honestly, I must have. I called his hypothesis asinine, and he banished me from the boardroom. Wouldn’t even let me deliver the profile.”

“Damn. Has he talked to you since?”

“He chewed me out for a few minutes, then tried to profile me.”

“What in the world came over you?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Well, I can sympathize a little.” Sam flopped onto his back, curling one arm under his pillow to support his head, watching the light of passing cars play through the slats of his blinds, “I one-upped Crowley today.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t help myself. He dumped this rich patient in my lap and decided to torture me with him, when all the while the reason he wasn’t getting better was because Crowley was flipping him from ward to ward.” His sheets rustled around his legs as he kicked them off, “He tried to make me stay for the overnight call shift.”

“I assume you got out of it?”

“I wouldn’t be calling you from my big, comfy bed otherwise,” Sam said with a smile, stretching his legs our now that they were free from their confinement, “Though, I can’t take the credit. Cas got me off the hook.”

“You owe him.”

“I do.” There was a curious sloshing sound on Spencer’s end of the line, “You back at the hotel?”

“For now,” Spencer said, “hoping to catch a bit of shut eye before the next crisis arises.”

“Good work is never done.”

“Nope.” Spencer hesitated, then asked, “What are you still doing up, anyways?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Still studying?”

“No, I gave up that ghost hours ago, and I’ve been trying to sleep ever since.” Despite the risk of sounding sappy, Sam said, “But this bed is far too empty, for my liking.”

Spencer hummed happily. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, bookended by another sloshing sound, and now running water, “if it helps, mine is too.”

“Is that where you are right now? Alone in your hotel bed?”

“Not exactly,” Spencer murmured, sighing deeply, “I’m in the bath.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. “What is it with you and baths?” he asked. He meant for it to sound teasing, but it only came out a husky whisper.

“I don’t have a tub at home, so when I’m on a case I like to take advantage of the hotels amenities.” Sam could clearly make out now the sound of water lapping at the edge of the tub, and the rumble of jets, “This one’s a jacuzzi.”

Inhaling shakily, Sam inwardly cursed the relaxed, sultry sound of Spencer’s voice. “I could go for one of those,” he said, feeling like the worlds biggest perv as his cock twitched against his belly, half hard from the mere sound of Spencer’s voice, and the thought of him in hot, steamy bath. He couldn’t help but picture him, his long legs bent at the knees as he reclined in the water, his hair clinging to his neck with the steam and droplets shining along his bare shoulders, his pale skin flush from the heat.

“Instead of your bed?” he asked, and Sam had to bite his lip when Spencer moaned softly. 

He was doing this on purpose, Sam was nearly certain of it. “With you?” Sam asked, giving in to temptation and snaking a hand down the waistband of his boxers, rhythmically squeezing his shaft, “In a heart beat.”

“And yet, here I am,” Spencer whimpered, water slapping tantalizingly against his bare skin, “Wet, warm, naked, and all alone in a big, empty tub.”

“God, you’re such a tease.” Gasping, Sam arched against the bed, not bothering to keep up pretenses now that he’d caught on to Spencer’s game. “How big we talking?”

“Big enough for you, if that’s what you’re getting at.” His feet squeaked against the porcelain tub, and Sam could picture him now, could imagine walking in on him. Through the cloying steam he could see Spencer’s legs dangling over the edges of the tub, thighs spread, one arm thrown back over his head and gripping the rim of the basin to keep him afloat, as the other one disappeared beneath the surface of the water. “Come on, Sam. Tell me,” Spencer whispered breathily, and Sam imagined his eyes flitting open, heavy lidded and dark as they met Sam’s across the room, and his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he asked heatedly, “What would you do to me?”

Sam stifled a groan as his dick throbbed in his hand, turning his head to mash his cheek into the pillow. “Jesus, Spence,” he gasped, gripping a little firmer, his hand moving a little faster as his thighs strained against the mattress, “We really doing this?”

“Well, considering I’m already trying to pretend my fingers are your cock, I’d sure hope so.” He said it so glibly that it startled a laugh out of Sam, one that tapered into a groan when the mental image he concocted caught up with the tantalizing tidbit Spencer had just supplied him, “We just need to catch you up.”

Sam chuckled, his heart beating wildly as once again he could hardly fathom how lucky he was to have this man. “Keep talking like that,” he said, biting his lower lip, “and it won’t take long.”

“Perfect.”

**February 3 rd @ 6am**

The next morning was going much better than the last. Sam had slept like the dead, got up early for his run and was just getting his morning smoothie concocted, when Cas snuck into the apartment.

He’d heard him leave last night, when Sam had been saying goodnight to Spencer, but he didn’t think twice about it. Cas had been rife with ‘dates’ lately, and he always came back a few hours later, so when Sam woke without hearing him come in, he figured Cas had either done so quietly, or Sam had slept through it.

Watching him tiptoe through the front door in skin-tight leather pants and leopard print jacket, Sam took that as proof enough he hadn’t been making an early morning run to the grocery store. “Are you just getting back now?” he asked, not feeling the least bit guilty this time when Cas flinched at the sound his voice.

Cas froze in front of the door, his palms flat against it and his shoulders drawn up to his ears. He craned his neck to see if they were alone, and when he was sufficiently convinced of their privacy, he turned his pleading, upturned eyes on Sam and asked, “Don’t tell Jack.”

Crossing his arms, Sam shook his head disbelievingly. “Were you out all night?” he asked, his brow furrowing. He’d heard Cas leave at midnight, and while it might be normal for someone to spend the night with a date, it wasn’t for Cas. He never stayed over, ever.

That earned him a petulant glare, one that made him feel instantly guilty. He wasn’t Cas’ jailor. He knew Cas was a grown man, that he could come and go as he pleased, but it was the secrecy that was bothering him. He never hid anything from Jack, and he usually told Sam everything, didn’t he?

Sam pursed his lips, mulling over the fact that no, he didn’t tell him everything. _He_ certainly spilled his guts on a near daily basis, but Cas never said a peep about his personal life. Everything he’d learned about Kelly was from Jack, and the kid had never even known his mom. Sam picked up a little of Cas’ young adulthood from Lilith, but never from Cas. The only stuff Cas talked about was work, Jack, and sometimes, who he was dating.

It stung. Sam told Cas everything about his life, but aside from some second-hand gossip collected from his brother and boss, Sam knew nothing about him. Did he not trust him? Sam wondered, staring thoughtfully at Cas, who was still frozen by the door, wordlessly pleading for his silence.

Cas made a piteous noise as the pressure of Sam’s stare grew critical. “Sam, please,” he begged, and it was the desperation in his voice that broke through Sam’s resolve.

“This is getting ridiculous, Cas.” Sam said, and Cas nodded. He knew it, too. “Fine,” he relented with a sigh, pleading the fifth, “I won’t say anything.”

Surging forwards, Cas wrapped his arms around Sam’s chest and pulled him into a hug so tight that it stole the breath from him. Sam chuckled despite himself, patting Cas on the back as he squeezed the life from his lungs, any hurt feelings forgotten in the face of Cas’ overwhelming relief…

That was, until Sam caught of whiff of Cas’ cologne.

Then they came rushing back.

“You should seriously consider a shower,” Sam said, hoping his teasing cadence was enough to mask the creeping anxious dread that was simmering beneath the surface, “because you smell like freaking Acqua Di Parma. How old is this guy? Eighty?”

Cas chuckled, letting Sam go in favor of swatting at his arm. “Hush,” he said, rubbing at his tired eyes, and smiling, “and thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sam said. He watched as Cas drifted out of the kitchen, exhausted and in a daze, and he stood, frozen against the counter until he heard the bathroom door shut and the lock click.

That wasn’t Cas’ cologne. Cas was practically swimming in it, but it wasn’t his.

It was Crowley’s.

He’d recognize it anywhere. It preceded the chief of medicine before he entered a room, alerting the ward to his presence long before he got there, and it hung around for hours after he left. Cas would never wear something so dated on his own, and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t afford it. But for Crowley, it was his signature. A status symbol and a herald, and despite the fact it smelled like a campfire, it was the only cologne he wore.

Suddenly, Sam wholeheartedly regretted his wish to learn more about Cas’ personal life. He knew more than he cared to now, and his stomach turned uncomfortably at the implications of Castiel, coming home at six in the morning dressed like a stripper and smelling like their boss. Missouri’s mention of rumors made an unfortunate amount sense now, and Sam wished he could go back in time just ten minutes so he could let Cas slip past him into the bathroom in peace, avoiding this realization altogether.

But last he checked, he couldn’t turn back time, and Cas was his friend. If Crowley was taking advantage of him, Sam needed to know, and whatever circumstance was driving Cas to sleep with their boss, Sam wanted to help resolve it. And at the very least, if they cared for each other, if there was truly nothing untoward going on between them, Sam wanted to make sure Cas was being taken care of.

He needed to find a way to get Cas to spill the beans, he decided.

And after checking the time on the stovetop clock, he figured it could wait until after work.

 

**9:15am**

Getting paged off rounds was a blessing in disguise.

A blessing, because as the only doctor in the hospital who was fluent in French, he was apparently indispensable.

A curse, because as the only doctor who was fluent in French, he was basically on his own for this one.

Thankfully, he had Andy Gallagher today as his intern, which meant he’d have a second set of hands. And if luck was on his side, that night wouldn’t be too hectic, and they could get this patient back on her feet in no time.

Walking into her room in the ICU, Andy was already standing at the foot of her bed, looking through her chart and shuffling awkwardly on the spot as she smiled at him, waiting for him to speak. “No English, huh?” he asked, and she shook her head regretfully, both of them looking down at the ground after that, both feeling a touch inadequate and out of place.

“Bonjour, madame Bisaillon!” Sam said as he walked into the room, breaking the silence, and bringing a genuine smile to her face. He must have been the first person she could comfortably converse with since she arrived. “Je suis Dr. Campbell. Dr. Gallagher est un étudiant de première année et est mon ombre. Peut-il aider à prendre soin de vous?”

Madame Bisaillon nodded, finally relaxing into her pillows, “Oui.”

Sam smiled, giving her a quick once over. She looked like she was in her late forties, and beat. She was struggling to keep her eyes open, her breathing looked laboured despite the oxygen clip in her nose, and from where he was standing, her chest was only rising a fraction of an inch every few seconds. They needed to get her more support, he mused, taking the chart from Andy and scanning it quickly. But first, “Merci. Comment vas-tu?”

She chuckled softly, as best she could with how strenuous her breathing seemed. “J'ai été mieux.”

Sam took a seat at the foot of her bed, asking, “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?”

Unsurprisingly, she pointed to her chest and said, “J'ai du mal à respirer.”

“What did she say?” Andy asked.

“She’s having trouble breathing.” Pulling his stethoscope from his shoulders, Sam pressed the diaphragm to her chest, frowning at the congestion he heard as she breathed, “Madame, avez-vous 41 ans? Ton lupus, quand as-tu eu une réaction pour la dernière fois?”

Madame Bisaillon nodded lethargically. “Oui, et il y a quatre mois,” she said, before reaching out and patting his arm. It was an odd gesture, one that drew his attention from his stethoscope back to her as she asked, “Je suis juste ici pour affaires, quelqu'un pourrait-il s'il vous plaît informer mon mari?”

“Certainement,” he said, turning to Andy, “Could you get a hold of Meg? See if she can’t track down Madame Bisaillon’s husband.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Andy asked him as he rose from the bed.

Sam grinned wryly. Added responsibility aside, this was the best part of being a resident. “I don’t know,” he said, and in a move Garth used to pull on him when he was an intern, he passed the chart to Andy, “What do you think?”

Andy, younger than Sam by no more than a few months, looked stunned. He stared at the chart in Sam’s hand like it was a poisonous snake, tentatively taking it only when Sam shook it at him. “A Lupus patient her age, presenting with shortness of breath…” he said, flipping furiously through the pages, hoping the answer would just come to him. Sam had done that many a time before, it never worked. He ended up at the right solution, however, when he finally stopped to think for a moment, “Might be a pulmonary embolism.”

“Good, so what do we need to do?”

“Put her in for a CT scan.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Not bad,” Sam told him, patting him on the shoulder, “She can barely keep her eyes open, so I think she needs more assistance. I’d order an ABG in the meantime as well and see if you can’t get her on an oxygen mask.”

“Can do.” Andy said, making note of it in the chart and then to the nurse’s station.

“Meet me in the office afterward, and we’ll run the plan by Garth!” Sam called after him. He cleaned up Andy’s notes, clipped the chart to the end of the bed and when he looked up, Madame Bisaillon was watching him quietly, a smile on her face hardly masking the anxiety in her eyes. _She’s frightened,_ Sam thought to himself, _say something to reassure her._ “Nous vous donnerons un masque pour que vous puissiez mieux respirer,” he said, rounding the bed and taking her hand in his, “puis nous ferons un test sanguin. D'accord?”

It didn’t fix things, but it certainly was a step towards making her feel better. “Merci,” she said, her eyes drooping sleepily, and Sam gave her hand one last squeeze before leaving her be.

**10:00am**

Sam was sitting on the exam table in Garth’s tiny office, bouncing his heels off the side of the bed as Garth paced in front of them, flipping through their treatment plan. He knew what Garth was going to say, because he’d been around long enough to know the plan was sound, but Andy? He looked like he was about to have a heart attack, his cheeks pale as he watched Garth pace with his thousand-yard-stare.

He never could figure out why interns found Garth intimidating. Maybe it was just his status as attending physician, or maybe it was that Sam had seen him get loaded off a single beer, but Garth was nothing but a teddy bear to him. Especially since, even when you did mess up, Garth never lost his temper. Hell, the most terrifying thing he ever did was break out the sock puppets, and you’d pretty much need to kill someone to get him to do that.

“Looks good to me, fellas.” Garth said, handing the plan back to Sam, “Did you call her husband?”

“Yeah, Meg just found his number,” Andy answered quickly, “he’s flying from Quebec, says he’ll be here tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Well, with her O-sat less than 95 percent and her heart rate so low, too, I think getting her into a CT as soon as possible is the best course of action.” He turned to Sam to ask, “ABG?”

“Already ordered,” Sam told him.

Garth smiled widely, giving them an over enthusiastic thumb up. “Muy bien, muchachos! Keep it up.”

**12pm**

Sam glared down at the clock on his phone, which glared right back that he still had twenty hours left to his day.

He was sitting down now, at least. Even though it was still early, it had been a hectic day so far. He’d been paged three times on the way to the cafeteria, and he’d just been paged again after Garth joined him and Andy for lunch. Thankfully, he’d been able to scarf most of his salad down without any other interruptions, but he was watching the clock like a hawk.

He also hadn’t heard from Spencer that morning, but that was beside the point. Or, so he told himself.

“Expecting a call?” Garth asked.

Sam snapped his phone shut, and shoved it back in his pocket. “No.”

“Because you’re not supposed to have that on the floor.”

“I know.”

“But I can make an exception if you’re waiting on Spencer.”

Sam perked up instantly, smiling. “You remembered his name!”

“Heck yes I did,” Garth said, “I better. We talked about Star Trek for half the night at your party.”

Andy looked up from his soup with a sulky, puckered brow, “What party?”

“That was before your time, kiddo.” Garth waved in the face of his FOMO. “Way back in the long, long ago.”

“He means it was last month,” Sam added.

Andy hummed, his eyes flickering off to the side. He remained impassive for a moment, and Sam thought maybe he was zoning out. He didn’t blame him if that was the case, when you were on call you took whatever chance you got to shut your brain off for a moment, but then his eyes widened, his mouth falling open in a shocked ‘oh,’ and he exclaimed, “Oh, shit.”

Sam turned, craning his neck over his shoulder to see what he was looking at. “What?”

“Language!” Garth scolded.

Andy grasped Sam by the chin and tilted his head back, aiming his sightline at the TV. “Look!” he said, pointing to the petite blonde announcer on the Peachtree afternoon news program, “They’re talking about that murderer in Georgia.”

Those were two words Sam didn’t want to hear together, not when Spence was in Georgia, investigating a murder. “What murderer?”

Garth quirked a brow, asking, “You didn’t hear about this guy?”

“It’s all over the news,” Andy concurred, not looking away from the TV as he spooned another mouthful of soup past his lips, “he’s been killing people on camera and streaming it on the internet.”

“Sick fuck,” Sam muttered, a black hole opening in the pit of his stomach. He hated the thought of Spencer being in the vicinity of people like that, of being in imminent danger at any moment. Logically, he knew that he was surrounded by a team of trained professionals, and that he was one as well. He could take care of himself in even the direst of situations, but love wasn’t logical. Once your heart was involved, it all came out caveman, and Sam’s lizard brain was telling him he should have insisted Spencer sit this one out.

“Excuse you.” Garth said exasperatedly, waving apologetically to a mother and her two young kids at the table beside them. “There’s no new information, though. This is the same stuff they were playing last night.”

“Looks like an FBI blackout.” Andy said, elaborating when both Sam and Garth looked at him quizzically, “Usually when the media starts recycling info on a current crime, it’s because they’ve been cut off by the authorities. I wonder why.”

Sam’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. “We should get back to rounds,” he said. There was work to be done, at he’d be of no help to anyone if he sat here any longer, his mind descending into a spiral of all the horrible things an ‘FBI blackout’ could mean.

His pager beeped loudly.

“You should go back to rounds,” Sam said as he stared down at the emergency code on the pagers tiny screen, “I’ve got to go to emerge.”

**5:10pm**

Hours later, after multiple admissions and no time to even go to the bathroom, Sam and Andy found themselves standing outside of diagnostic imaging, staring forlornly down at Madame Bisaillon’s CT scan results.

“Well,” Sam said.

“That’s not good,” Andy agreed.   

“Least we caught it.” Sam handed Andy the scan, a worryingly large clot stained against the black backdrop, “Start her on a Heparin drip.”

**6pm**

When an hour passed and her ABG arrived, Sam took one look at it before calling in a respiration therapist. “This ain’t good, dudes,” Harry told them when he arrived, chewing on the cap of a pen as he studied what were some godawful numbers, “This is the worst blood gas I’ve encountered my entire career.”

Andy scoffed. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” Harry shook his head, looking over the numbers again in vain. “I’ve never seen an ABG this bad.”

Sam made a note to up her Heparin drip, glancing worriedly at her O-Sat, “It’s the least of our problems right now if we don’t break down that clot.”

Harry shook his head, “She’s not going to have time to break down that clot if you don’t deal with this acidosis.”

He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He could call in Garth, but what could he do? Sam would just be passing the buck, and that wasn’t fair. This was his patient, and he needed to decide on what to prioritize. “Look, we—”

His pager beeped, interrupting him mid-sentence. “Sorry,” Sam said, holding up a finger and walking over to the phone, “one moment.”

Andy groaned in frustration, “That thing hasn’t stopped beeping for five hours, I swear.”

The ICU nurse who paged him picked up after the first ring, “Hey, this is Sam from—”

Cas cut him off before he could get halfway through his spiel. “I need an emergency intubation,” he said, hurried and anxious, two things that, coming from Cas, meant this was something serious.

Sam knew better than to argue or ask for clarification. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll send Andy.”

“Now.” Cas told him, before hanging up the phone.

“Send Andy where?” Andy asked.

“ICU. Cas needs a patient intubated.”

Sam pointed him towards the door, and Andy paled. “But, I—”

“Now, Andy.” Sam snapped, joining Harry and Meg by Madame Bisaillon’s bed, “I need to deal with this… horrible gas.”

Andy hovered by the door a moment, perhaps of the mind to protest again. However, one look at Sam’s face and he thought better of it, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he made his way out of the room, and down the hall.

“What’re you thinking?” Meg asked.

“Start her on Bronchodilators.” Sam said, “Albuterol.”

“Can do, boss man.”

His pager beeped again, and Harry scoffed. “Can’t catch a break, can you dude?

“Not today apparently,” Sam said, grabbing the phone, and dialing the ICU once more, “This is Sam from Team—”

Once again, Cas didn’t let him get a word in before interrupting him. “I needed this patient intubated five minutes ago, and Andy won’t do it without your supervision,” he snapped, loud enough that Meg could hear him from her place by the patient’s bed, “Get down here.”

“I’ll watch her, Moose.” Meg told him, waving him out of the room, “Duty calls.”

 

**8pm**

“Bonsoir, Madame Bisaillon,” Sam said as he entered her room, glad to see her conscious this time. She waved weakly, trying valiantly to smile at him, but it did nothing to quell his worry. She looked like she was getting worse, not better.

Cas looked up from her IV with a smile as pitiful as the patients, “Hey Sammy.”

“Damn.” That took him by surprise. Cas never called him Sammy. “She must not be doing so hot if you’re using my actual name.”

“Afraid not.” Cas pointed to one of the many glowing monitors Madame Bisaillon was hooked up to, his finger hovering over a number Sam was hoping not to see, “Her blood gasses are level, but she’s not getting any better. Look at her O2-Sat.”

There was no sugar-coating it: it looked bad. “Up the Heparin to 1500 units per hour,” Sam said, resisting the urge to nibble on his nails like he often did when he was starting to stress, “Do you think that sounds like enough?”

Cas blinked up at him. “You’re the doctor,” he said, hunched over the patient’s bed as he helped cover her with her sheets, “but it might be time to start thinking of a plan-B.”

That was the last thing he wanted to hear. Plan-B meant hurtling head first into a decision of life or death, without a safety net, and he was petrified by it. And while he knew this situation wasn’t going to resolve itself, instead of taking a leap and doing what he needed to, he buried his head in the sand. “Keep her on the Heparin for now.”

“That’s inspiring,” Cas quipped, before shrugging his shoulders, “Okay.”

Madame Bisaillon reached out a hand to Sam, asking, “Mes progrès, docteur?”

He took her questing hand swiftly, crouching down at the side of her bed so he could talk to her face to face. “Jusqu'ici tout va bien. Nous vous tiendrons au courant, mais essayez de dormir un peu. Il est tard.”

“Tell her she’s going to be okay,” Cas murmured.

Sam squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Ça va aller bien.”

“Vous êtes entre de bonnes mains,” Cas said.

Sam and Madame Bisaillon looked up at him sharply, surprised by the fluency of his French, to which he shrugged. It wrung a laugh from their patient, muffled as it was by her oxygen mask, which brought a smile to both of their faces.

Trailing out of the room after Castiel, Sam caught him by the nurse’s station. “Since when do you speak French?” he asked.

Cas chuckled, keying in something on his computer before flopping into his chair, letting out a great, whooshing breath. He’d been on his feet for as long as Sam, had been just as busy as him too, and Sam honestly envied that he was sitting in that moment, and not him. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said.

He’d nearly forgotten their exchange that morning, but that offhand comment sent it all rushing back. Sam didn’t want to bring it up, and he was certain Cas hadn’t meant to bring it up, either, but he couldn’t help himself. “Yeah,” Sam said, leaning against the counter and picking at his thumbnail, “you’ve made that much painfully clear.”

In his periphery he could see Cas bristle, his words hitting their mark. “Do we have to do this again?” Cas asked.

Sam shrugged, “I just—”

“No, spit it out.” Cas hefted himself from his seat, flattening his palms on the counter and leaning forwards until they stood face to face, only the partition between them, “Apparently, we’re doing this. You just what?”

“I don’t understand why you’re so secretive.” If Cas wanted to hear it, then fine. Sam was only holding back for the sake of his comfort, anyways. “We work together, we live together, we’re _friends_ , and yet, outside of your work and Jack, I don’t know anything about you.”

Cas gave him a look that screamed ‘is that all?’ And when Sam didn’t elaborate, said aloud, “I guess I’m not comfortable sharing my personal life.”

“But you know everything about me.”

“Because you’re a sharer. I’m not. I never have been.” Sam frowned. That was true, at least. “It’s nothing against you, okay?” Cas’ expression softened as he asked, “Are you mad?”

He didn’t feel any better. He was still worried for his friend, who he was still convinced as having an affair with their boss. He was still hurt that his friend didn’t trust him enough to talk to him about it. And he was getting tired of Castiel dodging every attempt to do so. But he couldn’t look into those pleading baby-blues, or around at the workplace they needed to share and get along in, and not decide to relent. “Nope.” He said after a beat, taking a page from the Dean Winchester book of coping skills and expertly dropping the subject, “I’m starving, my dogs are barking… I’m getting food.”

Cas visibly relaxed. “Good luck,” he said, slumping back into his chair, “I heard they have two patients in emerge about to be admitted.”

Sam got a page before he even left the ward.

****

**9:50pm**

Almost two hours later, and Sam was sprinting towards the cafeteria, determined to get food before they closed for the night. He had ten minutes as he bounded off the elevator, his refusal to subsist off vending machine candy bars for dinner propelling him down the hall. Yet, when he rounded the corner, down the straight shot towards the cafeteria, he caught sight of the server pulling the metal gate closed across the entryway. “No, no, no!” he cried, skidding to a halt in front of the startled man, who finished shutting the gate just in time. “Come on, man. Please, it’s 9:51, you don’t close for ten more minutes!”

The man stammered, “Place was dead, so we called it an early night.”

“This is the first time I could get away since noon!” Sam looped his fingers through the slats in the metal gate, “I haven’t sat down in ten hours!” The server grimaced, but made no move to open it, “I’m on call tonight, and I can’t live off chips and soda, please.”

The man opened his mouth to reply, probably with another hapless sorry as he turned his key in the lock, cementing Sam’s culinary fate. Before he could get a word out, however, he was interrupted by an ear-piercing echo of Sam’s previous tirade. “No, no, no!” Kevin cried as he came to a stop beside Sam, digging his fingers into the gate and shaking it wildly, “No, you can’t be closing! I just held a dude’s foot for three hours, I need my munchies!”

The server looked between the two of them in shock, his mouth open and gaping like a fish. “I’m sorry, guys,” he said, gesturing to the closed down food station to his left, “Even if I wanted to let you in, everything’s put away. There’s nothing left.”

“Listen—” Sam glanced down at the man’s name tag. “Troy. Can I call you Troy?” The man nodded, “What about sandwiches? Or just the bread, I’ll literally take just a loaf of bread.”

“A chocolate milk and a stack of cheese slices, please!” Kevin added hastily.

Troy bit his lip and looked around. It appeared he was the only one there, and if Sam had to hazard a guess, this wasn’t the first time he’d been accosted by over tired, half-starved doctors in the middle of the night. “Well…” he said, his shoulders slumping as he finally gave in to their pleading, “I’ll see what I can do. Wait here.”

“Thank you!”

“Thank you, thank you!!”

As Troy disappeared into the back of the cafeteria, Sam turned his back to the gate, letting himself slide down until his butt hit the floor. He smiled up at Kevin who chuckled, joining him in a squat and dropping his head wearily into his hands. “You held a foot?” Sam asked.

“Roscoe got to be the star resident today,” Kevin said disdainfully, “I was just assisting.”

“You’re on-call tonight, right?”

“With you and Cas, yeah. It’s like we never left home this morning.”

Sam unfurled his legs in front of him, his feet throbbing. “I have a PE patient who isn’t responding to Heparin. Her BP’s dropping, and I think I might need to push thrombolytics.”

“Dang.” Kevin winced, “That sucks.”

“Even worse is she only speaks French, and her husband is in Canada. She’s all on her own, and I’m scared if I push thrombolytics, she’s going to hemorrhage before he even gets here.”

Pursing his lips, Kevin nodded along with him, easily following his process. “But if she continues to decompensate, it might be too late to save her by the time he gets here.”

“I know.”

“Talk about a rock and a hard place.”

It was a grim situation. He knew exactly what to do, but he didn’t want to do it. He was still holding out hope that she would suddenly, miraculously get better. It was a long shot, but sometimes in medicine, waiting was the right call. He just wasn’t certain if that would be the case this time.

Sam decided to change the subject. “Did you know Cas is sleeping with Crowley?”

Upon seeing Kevin almost fall, completely bowled over by Sam’s blasé admission, he realized he probably could have gone about that more tactfully. “ _What!?”_ Kevin demanded, his screeching voice reaching a pitch only dogs could hear, “Did he tell you that!?”

“No, he won’t tell me shit.” Sam tried to keep the bitterness from seeping through, but from the look on Kevin’s face, he hadn’t succeeded. “But he’s been going out almost every night, and I caught him sneaking in the apartment this morning and he absolutely _reeked_ of Crowley’s cologne.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s sleeping with him.”  

“But then there was something Missouri told me the other day,” Sam said, “She said they have history, and that there’s been rumours. And think about it: whenever Crowley goes off on a tirade, who’s the one to always reels him back in line? Who can’t he say no to, no matter how hard he tries? Cas gets away with shit the rest of us would get fired for.”

Kevin pursed his lips ponderously. “You know, now that you mention it…” he said, trailing off like he might be misremembering things, “They have been spending a lot of time in his office lately.”

“Cas and Crowley?”

“Yeah, and whenever Crowley stops by the nurse’s station upstairs, he only ever talks to Cas.” His expression twisted into a grossed-out frown, “And he’s been awfully touchy with him.”

“See?”

“Damn.” Kevin said, “Well, now I know why he’s keeping it a secret. He doesn’t want it going around that he’s sleeping with the boss.”

That was the obvious conclusion. Cas had enough trouble with hospital gossip thanks to Eldon, he didn’t need another scandal throwing fuel on a slowly dying fire. “But why would he keep it from us?” he asked, sounding more hurt than he cared to.  

“I don’t know.” Kevin shrugged, clearly not as offended by Cas’ lack of transparency as Sam was. “But I think it has very little to do with us, and everything to do with Jack.”

“He keeps insisting I don’t tell Jack about his midnight ‘dates,’ as if he doesn’t know already.” Jack had pretty much spilled those beans to Sam on Christmas, though he’d refrained from telling Cas about that conversation. “Do you think they love each other? Or is it just sex?”

Kevin chuckled, shaking his head, “I don’t think McCleod’s capable of love.”

Troy chose that moment to come back, sliding the chain door open enough to pass three sandwiches and a chocolate mild through the gap. “Here you go, Doc’s,” he said, handing them off to Kevin and slamming the door shut as soon as his hands were clear.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Sam told him, taking two of the sandwiches when Kevin offered them.

Troy scoffed, but not without a smile. “Get here earlier next time,” he said, locking the door, and disappearing behind the counter, out of sight.

“Thank you so much!” Kevin called after him, cracking open his carton of chocolate milk and taking a large swig before turning to Sam, “Want to hole yourself away with me? We can figure out how we’re gonna get Cas to spill the beans.”

“Heck yes,” Sam said, “you know I love a good plot.”

**11pm**

He’d come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to sleep that night. He’d managed a half hour of rest with Kevin, scarfing down two whole sandwiches before getting paged to the emergency room for three consults, two of which needed to be admitted. He’d then spent the past hour trying to clear out some beds for those patients to be admitted _to_ , and now, he was on his way to the OR to set a central line for a patient with low BP.

Madame Bisaillon wasn’t improving either, much to his chagrin.

At least if he was keeping busy, it staved off his exhaustion. He could hardly find the time to feel sleepy when he was running from crisis to crisis, and if they kept coming, he was fairly certain he wasn’t going to crash.

Sam was speed walking down an empty hall, his first moment of solitude all day, and chanced a look down at his phone. Spencer was still radio silent, which was so unlike him. It sent Sam’s stomach into knots every time he thought about it, worry coiling at the back of his mind, so he tried not to as best he could. But now it was verging on twenty-four hours no contact, and even when he was bogged down with work, he always checked in because he knew how Sam functioned. He was programmed to worry, and Spencer did all he could to alleviate that. 

He was just busy. That’s what Sam needed to tell himself.

As he darted past the security room, the door clicked open, a thin fingered hand snapped out and grabbed his arm. Sam wheeled around, snatching his arm back and glaring at his would-be assailant, flummoxed by who he saw. “Charlie?” he asked, face-to-face with their tech expert and he suddenly, he knew something was wrong.

He could just tell, and it sparked a nervous feeling in his gut, one that was begging him to keep walking. There were no sharp-witted quips, no sunny smile and in its place, she wore a deep frown that looked out of place on her. She stood in the doorway staring, she was shuffling on her feet, clearing weighing the options of _something_ , before she made up her mind, grabbing him by his sweater sleeve and tugging him into the security booth, saying, “Come here.”

“I can’t,” Sam said, trying to extricate himself from her hold, “I’m on my way to the OR.”

Oddly, Charlie just gripped him tighter, knotting her fingers deep in the fabric of his sleeve, “This is important.”

What the heck was going on with her? “So is setting a central line,” he said. He was increasingly unnerved by the stillness of her eyes, by the firm set of her jaw that looked as though she was trying to keep from crying. “Seriously, the cat videos can wait.”

“It’s not a cat, or an inheritance scam, or a creepypasta, I promise!” Charlie snapped, tugging his sleeve sharply. “Sam, it’s Spencer.” She tugged again, this time managing to get him into the room as his knees buckled, the blood rushing from his head to pool in his feet, “At least, I think it is, come on!”

The door closed behind him, a dull thud in his periphery. “What are you talking about?” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. His hands trembled, his fingers prickling yet somehow numb as he tried to process what Charlie had just said. Had he misheard her? He must have misheard her.

His pager beeped, but he didn’t think to check it. “You know that dude that’s streaming murder videos online?” Charlie asked, rounding her chair, and sitting down, pulling her keyboard towards her. She was shaking too, he noticed, her fingers vibrating over the keys as she typed in a quick succession of characters, “My friend sent me his newest video. I think maybe they thought it was a hoax.”

“Jesus, Charlie!” No. No, he couldn’t watch this. He couldn’t see someone hurt and go back to work afterwards like nothing had happened. He clapped a hand over his eyes, “I don’t want to watch this shit!”

Charlie shook her head hastily, tugging his arm down. “I skipped over the truly horrendous stuff, but Sam—” She looked up, her eyes pleading, her index finger hovering over the space bar, “You want to watch this part.”

He didn’t. He knew he truly didn’t, but instead of walking out of the room and carrying on with his night, he found himself pulling up a seat and nodding. He was completely out of his mind, and felt as though he was floating an inch or two above his body, a spectator to himself as he leaned towards the monitor, his shoulders hunched up to his ears and his muscles tense with worry.

She’d said Spencer’s name, and Andy—didn’t he say that murderer on the news was in Georgia?

Wasn’t Spencer in Georgia?

You can still leave, he told himself, but he couldn’t convince his limbs to work. He was in a daze, trying to force himself out of his chair and into the hall, away from Charlie’s collection of action figures, bobble head dolls and monitors, knowing that, if this video showed him what he thought it would, it’d be the end of him. He’d be no use to any of his patients—he might lose someone because of it. He was going to lose his job. He knew needed to get up, to get away, but he was just _stuck_ there, staring at the screen as Charlie looked to him for permission.

He nodded, Charlie hit play, and his world fell to pieces.

There, from behind the screen, was Gideon. He recognized him instantly; as if he could ever forget that face. This was the man who questioned him in pursuit of his father. He’d separated him from Bobby and locked him in a dingy holding cell before subjecting him to a cruel line of questioning without legal representation, all to catch John and his brother on the worst day of Sam’s life.

It helped that he looked the same, from his hair to his clothes, to his perpetual scowl. The only difference between then and now were a few new lines depressed into his forehead and the dark circles underneath his eyes. He was standing in a living room, just as non-descript as any, only it didn’t look like he belonged there. The pictures on the wall were of a young black family, the décor screamed modern, and he stood at the far edge of the room, scanning like he knew he was looking for something, he just didn’t know where to find it.

Then his eyes flicked in Sam’s direction, the same piercing glare he’d fixed him with when he was a terrified, guilt-ridden twelve-year-old, and Sam snapped back with a gasp, his fingers strangling the edge of the desk in a death grip. Gideon strode towards the camera, slammed his hands down on the table on which it sat and leaned forwards, his face filling the screen as he stared through it. But he wasn’t looking at Sam.

“Reid, if you're watching, you're not responsible for this. You understand me?” Gideon took a breath, and Sam saw his steadfast composure miraculously waver, if only for a moment. He quickly composed himself, but in that moment? He looked terrified. “He's perverting God to justify murder. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you.”

Someone called to him from the left side of the camera, and he walked away.

Charlie hit the space bar again, pausing the video. “It might be nothing, but I saw this and—” she waved helplessly at the screen, “Spencer’s FBI right, like this guy is? Look, you can see his badge.” Gnawing nervously on the cuff of her sweater, she glanced up at Sam and asked, “Reid’s Spencer’s last name, right? Is he okay?”

Oh, how he wished he had the answer to that. But he had no idea. He hadn’t heard from Spencer since last night, which wasn’t completely out of the norm, especially when he was on a case. Being in a perpetual state of worry for his lover when he was out of town was normal for Sam, given his job, but he could usually keep his cool. He could rationalize that Spencer was with a team of trained professionals, each as skilled and talented as Spencer himself. Not only that, but they all cared for him like family, and to hear Spencer tell of it, any one of them would put their lives on the line if it meant keeping one of their own safe. There was no way they would let anything happen to him.

This video though… it was damning. Because here _was_ one of Spencer’s team, the head of said team in fact, speaking to him through a murderer’s video camera, telling him not to lose hope. “You’re stronger than him,” Gideon had said, “He cannot break you.”

Sam’s lungs gave a painful lurch, reminding him he needed to breathe. He let loose the air he had been holding in and gasped another sharp breath, his lungs aching as they tried to regain their natural rhythm. One glance at Charlie proved to him he couldn’t look at her anymore; the worry on her face was only compounding his own, and he wasn’t certain if it was for Spencer, himself, or both. All he knew was if he looked as horrid as he felt in that moment, there was no way he could return to work. What patient was going to trust him with their health when he looked like he was seconds away from a mental breakdown?

Despite his racing heart, the blood pounding in his ears sounding like the entirety of the Atlantic had been crammed inside his skull, he attempted to steel himself. He was a professional, god damn it. If he lost his cool, people could die. Besides which, he didn’t know anything for sure. Right? “I’m sure he’s fine,” he said aloud, standing up from his seat and wiping a hand across his lips, like he wasn’t certain he believed the words that had just passed through them.

And neither was Charlie. “But what if he’s not?” she asked, wringing her hands together and fretting, working herself up higher and higher by the second, inadvertently playing on Sam’s every fear, “What if… Oh my gosh Sam, when was the last time you heard from him?”

His stomach clenched, and he felt he might vomit. “He’s fine, Charlie.”

Charlie shook her head, standing up as well, asserting, “You don’t know that!”

Bile rose in his throat, and his vision went red.

Sam could count on one hand how many times in his life he’d lost his temper like this. Starting after his dad had been imprisoned, when his OCD got so bad Bobby and Ellen had been considering institutionalizing him, whenever he was forced to confront a hard, life-altering truth, his mind went blank. His vision blurred, and it was as though he’d suddenly fallen asleep, only to wake moments later to realise that while his mind had turned off, his body had been on autopilot. And without the higher brain function there to affirm that he was safe, that nothing was going to harm him (no ghouls in the cellar or strigas stealing through the windows), he lashed out in his defense, turning all that fear and anger out on to the world around him.

So, when Sam came to, he wasn’t surprised to find a wall of shattered, upended monitors, dolls and action figures scattered across the floor, and Charlie cowering behind him, back pressed to her mainframe like a mother protecting her child.

Guilt and shame now laced through his terror, and Sam covered his mouth with one shaking hand. Jesus Christ, what had he done? He was at work! He was—

He was having an all-out panic attack.

His pager beeped.

Kevin still needed him to set that central line.

Cas still needed a verdict on Madame Bisaillon.

Charlie needed him the hell out of her office.

He didn’t have time for this.

He needed to calm the fuck down.

“I’ve got to go back to work,” he said.

“Jeez Louise,” Charlie murmured, in the understatement of the century, “I don’t think you should be going anywhere, dude. Except, maybe to lie down.”

She was right, but Sam shook his head and left the room, all the same.

**February 4 th @ 12:45am**

Hunched over the sink in the operating prep room, Sam scrubbed at his hands. The water was scalding hot, beating a hollow rhythm into the bottom of the metal basin and wafting steam to caress his bare arms. The pink, powder-scented hospital soap that dried out his hands like the worst winter weather foamed in his hands, making a slick sound as he massaged it between his fingers, around his nail beds and up his forearms. He was alone in the room, all the nurses and doctors having left by now, else they were in the surgical bay operating on the patient Sam had set the line for. The room was darkened, and the only sounds were the incessant beeping of Sam’s pager, the drum of water and the squelching of soap.

He rinsed his hands under the running stream, then hovered over the taps, his fingers twitching as he willed them to listen, to turn the water off. But it was no use; with a deep, bone shaking sigh Sam pumped more soap into his palms and began to lather them again, scrubbing his red-raw fingers for the twelfth time. He cringed as his pager beeped, knowing it was probably Cas wondering where the hell he was, and he wanted to answer it, truly he did.

He just couldn’t stop washing his damn hands.

 _Think_ , he told himself. _Think about it rationally._ That was the kicker, wasn’t it? He didn’t _want_ to think about it at all. He wanted to bury it deep and go back to work, to be a freaking doctor and take responsibility for his patients, but his stupid, broken brain refused to let him. It wouldn’t allow him to compartmentalize, because it wanted to go over everything, every detail and worry and insecurity in excruciating detail, because it hated him. Because it wanted him to suffer.

And if that was what he needed to do, then so be it. So long as it got him back to work before his patients died and his hands started to crack and bleed.

What did he know about Spencer’s case? He knew it was in Georgia, where this psychopath was murdering people and streaming the kills online for the masses. He knew there was a media black-out, which according to Andy (the perpetual conspiracy theorist, so he took his word with a grain of salt) meant that the FBI stopped giving the media outlets information, suggesting something big happened outside of their control. He knew Spencer was on a team with Gideon, and that Gideon had been communicating with him through the murderer’s camera feed. He knew Gideon had been afraid for him, and that, most damning of all the evidence, Sam couldn’t get through to Spencer to save his life.

Well, that was it then, he decided as he rinsed his hands off once again.

Spencer had been captured by a serial killer, and the FBI had no idea where he was or if he was even alive.

He pumped more soap into his waiting palms, and began to scrub once again.

This was all his fault. Spencer was in immanent danger at best, dead at worst, and it was all because of him. Why the hell had he thought this time was going to be different? Where Sam was concerned, it always turned out the same. The only reason Spencer was in this Schrödinger’s cat predicament was because Sam decided to throw caution to the wind, only thinking of himself when he decided to speak to that handsome, intelligent young man who frequented his favorite coffee spot.

He should have known _better_.

He was cursed.

It was all _his_ _fault._

The door creaked open, and Sam didn’t bother looking up from the sink; he knew who it was before they even said, “Hey buddy.”

“Hi, Kevin,” Sam grunted.

“What are you still doing down here?” Kevin asked, his crocs squeaking against the tiles as he walked over to lean against the nearby counter.

“Setting a central line.” Sam said, playing dumb. Kevin knew something was up. He’d known Sam for long enough for a situation like this to set his Spidey-senses a tingling, and if he was going to ask stupid questions, Sam was going to give him stupid answers. “For you.”

“You did that fifteen minutes ago.”

“And now I’m washing my hands,” Sam snapped back, “or do you want me to contaminate every surface from here to the ICU?”

“No, I don’t want that,” Kevin said, his voice infuriatingly even, “but it usually doesn’t take you fifteen minutes to wash your hands.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’ll be done in a minute.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

Kevin pointed to his waist, “Your pager is going off.”

Sam slammed his hands down on the rim of the basin, “Jesus Kevin, I have _ears_! I know!”

“Okay!” Huffing, Kevin hopped up on the counter, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sam shook his head, “No.”

“That’s okay, too.”

Kevin sat with him in silence, not watching, not judging. Just sitting next to Sam as he washed his hands time aftertime.

**1am**

By the time Sam made his way to the ICU, he’d at least got his hands clean. Not that it meant anything to Cas, who was staring at him like he’d sprouted another head in his absence, nor the nurses who lined the halls, filling the peanut gallery in preparation for whatever half-baked excuse Sam was going to cook up.

Too bad for them, because he didn’t have one.

He’d wandered up there in a daze, not bothering to call Cas back. He had already missed multiple messages, and he knew where they were coming from. He only had one patient that was critical, and that was Madame Bisaillon. So, when he arrived at her room to find her nearly unconscious, the monitors hooked up to her flashing extremely worrying numbers and her respirator working in overdrive, he couldn’t say he was surprised.

The look of complete and utter disappointment Cas lanced him with didn’t shock him, either.

“Finally, he decides to show up.” Cas’ tone was clipped and icy, none of his trademark wit to be seen. He was furious and hurt, and he fumbled as he tried to record Madame Bisaillon’s stats, giving up and tossing her chart on the bed as he shouted, “Damn it, Sam! I’ve been paging you for half an hour, where the hell were you!?”

He’s never seen Cas like this before, and behind the haze of the turmoil going on in his head, Sam hated that it was him that put him in this mood. It only fed the guilt he was already drowning under. “In surgery,” Sam said, picking up the patient’s chart and wincing at the numbers.

How did she get so bad, so quickly?

“Bullshit,” Cas hissed, “you could at least answer your fucking pager.” He crossed his arms over his chest, “She’s decompensating rapidly, you need to do something.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair and tried, god how he tried to focus on the chart in front of him. He knew what to do, but he couldn’t bear to do it. “The only thing left to do is push thrombolytics,” he said, compulsively tucking an errant strand behind his ear, “but she might bleed out if we do.”

_She’s going to suffocate if you don’t. Her major organs are going to fail, she won’t get enough oxygen to her brain and she will die._

_Damned if you do, damned if you don’t._

He knew the answer, he knew there was only one right thing to do… but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be responsible for another person’s life like this, not when he’d already damned the person he loved to a slow, agonizing demise at the hands of a serial killer, just because he cared about him.

_Why did he ever think he could be a doctor? He couldn’t help anybody. He was made to destroy, not to heal._

“You need to make a decision Sam, and fast.” Cas’ voice cut through his self-deprecative inner-monologue, and Sam looked up at him helplessly, pleading for an answer Cas wasn’t qualified to give. “She deserves to know what’s going on, and she needs to hear it from you,” he said, pointing to Madame Bisaillon, who was opening her eyes, staring at him beseechingly, helpless, and scared, “her _doctor_.”

He couldn’t do this. “I—” he stammered, tapping his finger against his thigh with one hand and dropping the chart on the bed with the other, “I’ve gotta go.”

Cas blinked at him, not believing his ears. “What?” he asked, and when Sam ran from the room, leaving a flabbergasted patient and nurse in his wake, Cas cried after him, “Sam!!”

**2am**

He was sitting on the back of the sofa in the break room, the lights turned off and the room empty save for him, when Cas and Kevin tracked him down. Sam had been staring at his phone, willing for it to ring with such intensity that he didn’t notice them come in, not until Kevin waved his hand in Sam’s face. “What the heck are you doing, man?” he asked, deceptively gentle.

Cas was less cordial in his approach. “I can’t believe you,” he snapped, his hands on his hips, “I honestly can’t. All the times I’ve stuck my neck out for you, defended you, because I thought you were a good, compassionate doctor. Because I thought this place could use more people like you around. And now you decide to prove me wrong?” Cas scoffed and grabbed his cell from his hands, pointing to the door with it, “She is _dying_ , and you’re in here staring at your fucking _phone_! I’ve never been so disappointed in my life.”

“Sam,” Kevin said, sitting on the sofa by his feet and looking up at him imploringly, “what is going on?”

He tried to look away, but Kevin had him snared. Whatever, he might as well tell them. If anything, it would give them reason enough to take his patients away from him and give them to someone compentent. “I haven’t heard from Spencer all day,” he said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Cas threw his head back and groaned to the ceiling, “Lord, give me the strength not to clock this assbutt, right in the face!”

But Kevin remained patient, “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t heard from him at all,” Sam said, “No messages, no phone calls. Nothing.”

Kevin shrugged. “Maybe he’s busy?”

“Maybe he’s working,” Cas griped, “like you’re supposed to be.”

“That’s what I thought too, but then Charlie…” Sam paused, running his hands over his face and speaking into his palms, like he didn’t want to say this out in the open, like he could speak it into reality, “Have you two heard about that guy that’s posting murder videos online?” Cas and Kevin both nodded. “Well, she showed me the most recent one— the end of it, none of the gory bits. And Gideon was there, talking to Spencer through the camera.”

“Gideon?” Cas asked.

“FBI agent.” Kevin answered for him, “He worked your dads’ case, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, “a long time ago, but I recognized him. He’s Spencer’s superior officer, and what he was saying, he was speaking directly to Spencer like he was…” _Spit it out, Sam._ “It sounded like Spencer was being held captive by this fucking psychopath.”

Cas sunk down on to the couch opposite Kevin, all his righteous anger instantly dissipating, “Oh, my god.”

“It makes sense. Not getting a call from him is one thing, but to see Gideon, to hear him address Spencer with that look in his eye.” How was it that saying this out loud made it a hundred times better, and a thousand times worse? His vision blurred, his eyes burning with tears that fled down his cheeks as he tried to blink them away, “He’s worried about him, and that man doesn’t worry about anything. He’s the definition of frigid.”

“What did he say?”

“’Reid, if you're watching, you're not responsible for this. He's perverting God to justify murder. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you.’”

Kevin blew out his cheeks, “Fuck.”

“That—” It seemed for a moment like Cas was going to try and brush over it, to rationalize Gideon’s message away, but even he couldn’t do that. He gave up with a sigh and instead rest his arm on Sam’s thigh, his chin in the crook of his elbow as he looked up at him, “Okay, it certainly doesn’t sound good. But that doesn’t mean he’s a hostage. We don’t know anything for sure.”

Sam huffed, roughly wiping his cheeks. “How does that help? If I knew, I could do something, but I don’t, so I _can’t_.” He clenched his teeth against a sob, which bubbled up his throat anyways, nausea turning at his stomach again as worry gripped it tight and twisted, “I feel useless, fucking hopeless and I don’t know what to do.”

Finally, the dam broke. Sam crumpled forwards, wrapping his arms around his knees, and burrowing his head in his thighs to swallow his cries. His tears quickly damped his scrubs which clung to his legs, and his whole body shuddered as a deep, gasping sob tore free from his chest. Curling in on himself, sobbing like he hadn’t since Jessica died, Sam felt all of ten inches tall, willing the couch to swallow him whole, so he wouldn’t have to feel like this, so he could wallow in his grief without fear of judgement or the looming menace of responsibility.

There were hands in his hair, and the back of the couch shook as Kevin hopped up beside him, guiding Sam’s head from his lap to cradle against Kevin’s chest. Cas moved up as well, sitting on the opposite side of him and running his hands up and down his back, soothing away his sobs until he had nothing left in him to get out. They sat with him until he wore himself down, until all the terror and anxiety of the past few hours ripped and crawled its way from his body, freeing itself despite Sam’s attempts to sequester it away and ignore it.

In the end, his stomach was roiling, his throat was sore and his head felt heavy, but his mind was blissfully empty. “Sam, I’m so sorry,” Cas said softly he sat back up, wiping at Sam’s cheeks with the palms of his hands, “I really am. I’m sorry I yelled at you, and I’m sorry this is happening. I wish there was something I could do to make it better.” He cradled his jaw and looked into his eyes, “But there’s nothing to be done. Whatever is going on, it’s out of our hands.”

Kevin nodded, “You can drive yourself crazy thinking about it, and that’s not going to do you or Spencer any good.”

“Exactly.” Cas sighed, dropping his hands into Sam’s lap to gather both of his, squeezing them reassuringly, the same way Sam had help Madame Bisaillon’s earlier that night. “There’s nothing you can do about Spencer,” he said, and it was as if he knew exactly what Sam needed to hear, “but you need to do something for your patient. Because if you don’t, she _will_ die.”

And Sam already knew what to do, “Let’s push thrombolytics.”

“You’re sure?”

“That clot’s not going anywhere on its own,” Sam said, licking his lips and glancing at Cas imploringly, “Can you?”

“I’ll get her set up,” Cas said as he stood up, giving Sam’s cheek a gentle, heartening pat before leaving the room.

He took Sam’s phone with him too, thank goodness. That was a weight off his shoulders already. Sam took a deep breath, pushing his hair out of his face and intending on standing up, getting back out there and back to work, when Kevin stopped him. With a hand on his knee, Kevin pushed him back to his seat and asked, “What else?”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Something else is going on in that big noggin’ of yours,” Kevin said, tapping his temple, “you wouldn’t be beating yourself up, otherwise. Spill.”

 _Why did he need to be so perceptive?_  Sam wondered. Though he guessed ten years of friendship, living and working together through all of it, kind of encouraged a co-dependant relationship like theirs. And there was no point in hiding it, either. Experience proved Kevin would suss it out eventually. “It’s happening again,” Sam said.

“Oh, geez.” Kevin groaned and clapped a hand over his eyes, “No, it’s not—”

“It is!” Sam interjected, “Of course, it is, don’t you see!? You can’t deny there’s a fucking pattern, man! First Jessica dies—”

“That was a freak accident.”

“Then Madison!”

“She killed herself, dude! You can’t take responsibility for—”

“Then Ruby disappears—”

“She chose to run away!”

“Everyone I care about dies!” Sam slammed his fists down on his thighs, “They leave, or they die! Why would Spencer be an exception!?” He counted off on his fingers, “Jessica, Madison, Ruby… Dean? It’s all the same!”

“Shut the heck up.” Kevin snapped, and rose from the couch. “You are not responsible for this,” he said, staring Sam in the eyes, and grabbing his chin when he tried to look away, “I know you _think_ you are, but that’s impossible. You’re sick, and your brain is just messing with you.”

“I’m cursed,” Sam spat, his vile self-loathing like acid on his tongue.

“No, you’re not!” They’d had this conversation before, many times, and Kevin fell into it easily. “Dean and your dad? All of it was just unfortunate circumstances. You know this, Sam. Deep down, in that rational, logical part of yourself, you _know_ it was all just horrible chance.”

“No.” Sam shook his head. _He knew better._ “It can’t be. Kevin, I told Spencer I love him!”

Kevin blinked, “What? When?”

“Right before he left on this case.”

“And when were you going to tell me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kevin raised a querulous brow, and Sam insisted, “it doesn’t, because telling him I loved him is what’s going to kill him. I should have known better; it’s the Winchester kiss of death.” His throat was beginning to burn again, growing tighter and tighter, until it was a struggle for him to even mutter, “I killed him. I sentenced him to die.”

“Stop.”

“I—”

“Stop right fucking now!”

Sam snapped his mouth shut.

“You’re circling the drain, so let me break it down for you: you are not cursed. You’re focusing on the negative so much, you can’t see the positive.” Kevin beat the bladed of his hand into his palm, emphasizing every word, “Think about it rationally. You love me, right?”

He wanted to say that didn’t count, but one look at the murderous expression on Kevin’s face made him nod, instead.

Kevin gestured to himself, “Last I checked, I’m still kicking. Same goes for Cas and Jack. You love them too, and they’re alive, right? Nothing bad ever happened to them just because you love them.” Pantomiming Sam, Kevin rattled off his list of people on his fingers, “Bobby and Ellen? Jo and Dean? All alive. All well! And you love them more than life itself.”

Sam tensed his jaw, all but biting his tongue. He wanted to argue, but Kevin didn’t give him and in.

“Something awful has happened, and I am so sorry for it.” Kevin relaxed a little, sitting back down on the couch with his hands-on Sam’s knees, “I hope to God Spencer is fine, and I truly believe he’ll be okay. But if the worst happens? It’s not because of you. You’re not the catalyst for all of the horrible shit in your life; you’re a victim, too.”

_Why was he always right?_

“Why are you always right?” Sam said, echoing his internal monologue.

“Cause I’m Kevin fricking Tran,” Kevin said with a shrug, proving once again that humility just wasn’t his thing, “and I’m a genius.”

Cas poked his head inside the break room. “Hey,” he said softly, sympathetically, “she’s ready, Sammy.”

**2:10am**

Madame Bisaillon was asleep when he finally turned the valve on her IV, administering what could either save her life, or be the final nail in her coffin.

Her husband hadn’t arrived yet. She lay alone, sick and frail in her hospital bed, and despite being overcome with exhaustion, fear and worry, Sam couldn’t bear for her to be alone. If she lived or died, she shouldn’t do either in a strange bed, in a strange city, with no one who cared for her by her side.

Sam pulled up a chair, kicking his feet up onto a nearby monitor and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you tonight,” he whispered, lacing his fingers through hers, the gravity of what was about to happen hanging oppressively over them, and he kept his voice low out of respect, “but I promise, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here, the whole time.”

He sat back and settled in, watching her vitals like a hawk, and listening to the electric rise and fall of her respirator.

 

**3:10am**

Sarah Bisaillon died at 3:10am, February 4th, 2007.

Her husband landed on a twice delayed flight from Montreal ten minutes later.

Sam never once left her side.

**4:30am**

He turned the light to his call room on for the first time that night, set his stuff down, and immediately turned it back out.

Bone tired, exhausted from a night of almost exclusively downs and a long, arduous conversation with Monsieur Bisaillon, Sam flopped onto his bed face first. Now that he could finally sleep, he could hardly keep his eyes open, but there was something he wanted to do before he let himself slip into unconsciousness.

Flipping his phone open, he dialed his voicemail and help the receiver to his ear, his face half mashed into the pillow.

“Hey Sam, it’s me,” Spencer said, and through the separation of his phone, and if he closed his eyes, Sam could almost pretend that instead of listening to a message, Spencer was just on the other end of the line, speaking right to him.

**9am**

“Nothing from Spencer?” Cas asked, his voice low despite the rumble of the bus engine around them. Kevin sat beside him, both flanking Sam who sat in the middle seat, squished together like sardines amidst the rush hour transit crowd.

“No,” Sam said. He’d not received a call, text, or email during the night, and when he woke up, he listened to Spencer’s message three times over.

Cas placed a comforting hand on his knee. “I’m sorry.”

They fell into a bitter silence, all three of them staring out the window opposite them, looking past the faces of those who sat in the seats in front of them. It had been a long night all around, and though he was willing to bet none had as long a night as Sam, they were all wiped. They were beyond speech at that point, and while Sam fretted over the only thing he could, the one thing he couldn’t control, Kevin and Cas sat just as quietly, their minds blissfully (enviously) numb.

It was Kevin who broke the silence. Without looking away from the window, he asked, “Cas, how long have you been sleeping with Crowley?”

Sam whipped his head to the side so fast he almost cracked his neck. He first glanced disbelievingly at Kevin, who was still people watching out the window of the bus, then curiously at Cas, who was doing the same, completely unperturbed as he answered, “Fourteen years.”

Sam blinked. “Woah.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to crack that easy,” Kevin said, Cas having finally garnered his full attention.

“Fourteen _years?”_ Sam echoed.

“Off and on,” Cas said, holding his palm face down and tilting it left to right, “Right now, we’re on.”

“H-how?” Kevin stammered, “For that long?”

“He was a guest at the club when I first started.” Cas had stolen his other hand back from Sam’s knee, and was now nervously picking his nails, “He’d show up every Friday night, watch my show then grab a drink at the bar. He was the one to convince me to go back to school, you know. He’s the whole reason I became a nurse.”

 _When he first started?_ Sam didn’t particularly like the sound of that, “How old were you?”

Cas froze, looking anywhere but at Sam. He bit his lip, sucking it between his teeth and slowly rolling it free, unsure of how much of himself he wanted to lay out to the two of them. And when he finally said, “You’re better off not knowing,” Sam was inclined to agree.

“And you’ve just been…” Kevin thrust his fingers through the circle of his fist in a grotesque pantomime, and Sam slapped his hands out of the air with an offended groan, “ever since? Why? Do you even like him?”

His upper lip curling in mock disgust, Cas shook his head. “Like’s a strong word,” he said, “but it’s hard not to care about someone you’ve been sleeping with for over a decade. So yeah, I guess I do.”

“Is it serious?” Sam asked.

“No,” Cas said, “it’s just sex.”

Not one for tact, Kevin just asked, “Why?”

“Because when we’re not fucking, we don’t get along.”

“Okay,” Kevin clapped his hands over his ears and whined, “I’ve heard more than enough of _that_.”

Cas seemed grateful to drop the conversation, and while Kevin went back to looking out the window, watching a man in a nearby park play fetch with his dog, Sam had one last burning question to ask. “Is he good to you?”

His eyes narrowed as Cas stared at him, scrutinizing him carefully and pursing his lips. Did he think he had an ulterior motive? Cas was always tentative, quick to be cordial but slow to trust, and Sam kept his mouth shut in the interim. He let Cas look him over, ponder his intentions, knowing his patience would be rewarded in the end.

The smile that eventually broke through Cas’ pensive frown was blinding, warmer than the balmiest summer day, and one that, despite the nervousness, the anxiety that still scratched and scraped at the back of his mind, Sam couldn’t help but return. “Yes, Lancelot,” Cas said, his smile turning wistful as he glanced back out the window, looking somewhere into the recesses of his memories, somewhere only he could see, “he’s done more for me than you could ever know.”

**10am**

“Hey Sam,” Spencer’s message spoke to Sam as he lay in his darkened bed, phone to his ear, “it’s me. I just got in to my hotel room, I figured I’d give you a call, wish you goodnight…”

**8pm**

It took an embarrassingly long time for Sam to realize that the incessant ringing that woke him from a deep sleep wasn’t his alarm, but his phone. He swatted at his alarm in vain, each impact of his palm harder than the last, and he huffed out a frustrated groan when it didn’t seem to do any good. Clapping his pillow over his head, he tried to muffle the ringing through the feathers and his palms, but when his frustration only mounted, he was forced to sit up straight, his room pitch dark as he fumbled for his alarm clock, pulling the cord from the wall.

The ringing continued however, and he frowned at the clock, holding it to his ear to confirm to his sleep-addled brain it was not the source of that aggravating noise. No, the ringing was coming from his phone, which was vibrating across his end table, the little LCD screen reading “Private Number.”

Any other night, and he would have ignored it, turning his phone off and going back to sleep. Any other night, nothing would come between him and his fourteen hours of sleep after being on call. But this wasn’t any other night. His palms were already sweating when he picked his phone up, cautiously flipping it open, knowing that no matter who was on the other end, he was disastrously unprepared to hear what they had to say. Still, he held it to his ear and greeted, “Hello?”

“Sam?”

It was a voice he recognized, but couldn’t place. Female, airy. Anxious. “Who is this?” he asked.

“Sam, it’s JJ.”

A million and one questions popped into his head, but the only one he could vocalize was, “How did you get this number?”

“That’s not important.” JJ replied. Sam couldn’t stand the clipped severity of her tone, and it took all his willpower not to snap his phone shut, bury his head in the pillow and avoid the truth. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time. I shouldn’t even be calling you, this is breaking so many protocols, I don’t even—” she stammered, stumbling over her words, “Spence would know them off the top of his head, but I—”

God, he couldn’t take this. “JJ, is he alive?” he pleaded.

“Yes,” she said, and Sam slumped against his headboard in relief, “no thanks to me. We know where he is and we’re going to get him now. But it’s down to the wire, and I just wanted to…” she trailed off, the enormity of what she was doing here, on the phone with a civilian with whom she should have no contact at all, sinking in, “you deserve to know.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Through the lens of a camera, but he’s holding in there. He’s a fighter. I’m going to get him back, and I swear you, I’m not going to let him down again.”

Oh. _That was guilt he was hearing, wasn’t it?_ He was well acquainted with that emotion, and he could hear it loud and clear. She was blaming herself for Spencer’s capture. “It’s not your fault,” he said.

JJ scoffed. “You don’t know that.”

“No, I do.” He didn’t know what happened, what she was feeling guilty for… but he knew it was unfounded. “I know you care about him as much as I do, and I know you would never do anything that would put him in harms way. Not on purpose. Whatever it was, it was an accident. And I don’t blame you.”

“You would if you—”

“I wouldn’t, I don’t, and I never will.”

She made an odd, choked off sound, like she was about to argue, but thought better of it. Either he got through to her or she realized it was an argument she was never going to win. But no matter the reason, she stopped fighting him, and instead, with a sense of determination that was admirable even through the phone, she said, “I’m going to bring him home.”

“Please,” Sam begged her, feeling more acutely useless than he had all night.  

“I promise.”

She hung up before him, a droning buzz humming from the receiver as he sat up in bed, his heart racing, and his mind painfully quiet. He felt he should cry, but he’d done that already. JJ’s call only confirmed what he already knew, and at least now he was for certain Spence was alive. That was something, right? And he was tired, down to his very bones. He couldn’t muster up another tear if he tried, so instead he sat back in bed, his phone still in his hands and he stared at it, waiting however long it would take for it to ring, for JJ to call him back and tell him whether Spencer was safe, or dead.

Sam knew how these confrontations went. He’d not been privy to them personally, but he’d seen the aftermath: dad and Dean tearing through the motel parking lot in the Impala and busting down the door, screaming at him to pack their gear, to get the car loaded up, that they needed to go. Maybe a local cop had stumbled upon them, a hapless civilian caught in the line of fire in a holy war they didn’t know was raging around them. Sometimes, the FBI got too close for comfort—Sam’s confession wasn’t the first they’d heard of John Winchester, after all. Jason Gideon and his team had closed in on him many times before, but John was a weaselly mother-fucker when he wanted to be.

Either way, it usually ended in Sam pulling a bullet from a bawling Dean in the back of the car, stitching him up with dental floss while their dad tore down the I-95, howling at them to keep it together.

And whatever the cause, regardless of how the confrontation came about, they all ended the same: someone died. When tensions were running that high, when there came time to standoff against a person who was clearly not afraid to get their hands a little bloody, who had nothing to lose but their life, both sides didn’t think twice about letting the bullets fly. And the FBI in particular had a nasty track record of fudging tense situations. Spencer would be able to give him exact numbers, but Sam had heard enough of Pastor Jim’s sermons (second hand through his dad, of course), to know that Waco was not the only high casualty disaster they had under their belts.

Perhaps that’s why he was so checked out. The not knowing had propelled him into a panic at the hospital, but now that he was certain of Spencer’s precarious situation, he was coping in an entirely different way. His brain was finally letting him go numb, allowing him to sit in his blackened room completely thoughtless, as there was nothing else he could do. He couldn’t help Spencer, but he was used to that. It was just like Jessica. He couldn’t get there in time to save her from the electrical fire that overtook their apartment, nor could he get through to Madison before she put a bullet through her head. He could only sit there, useless and breathing, waiting for a call.

His phone vibrated once in his hand, and Sam snapped it open, holding it to his ear. “JJ?”

No, not JJ. An engine roared, and Dean, clearly driving like a madman, asked, “Sammy, what was your fellas name again?”

“Spencer Reid,” Sam answered automatically.

“Okay.”

 _There_ were the tears. Something about his brother’s voice, that simple affirmation that was so self-assured, so collected—it made him feel like a kid again. Sam’s next breath shuddered, and he wept as he tried to explain, “Dean, he—”

“Don’t you worry,” Dean said, cutting him off before he could really get going, “everything’s gonna be okay. Just sit tight.”

Dean hung up before him, a droning buzz humming from the receiver as Sam sat up in bed, his heart racing, and his mind painfully quiet.

**9:30pm**

It was an hour later when Sam’s phone rang again, and he’d almost fallen back asleep. Fumbling it open, he hit himself in the side of the head with it before managing to find his ear, grumbling, “Hello?”

“You owe me big time, dude.” Dean simply said. “And don’t forget, I still need that two hundred. I got Rufus and Deveraux breathing down my fricking neck.”

**February 5 th @ 9am**

Sam couldn’t sleep after that.

He kept hoping for a call from JJ, or maybe some kind of explanation from Dean, but when neither came he coped with the uncertainty the only way he knew how: by going on multiple, successive runs, until he couldn’t move, much less think.

Walking through his apartment door after his third run that morning, Kevin thrust his pager at him. “This hasn’t stopped beeping since you left,” he explained, pushing it against Sam’s chest until he took it, “It’s giving me war flashbacks, dude. Make it stop.”

Odd. He wasn’t working that day, and this was his emergency pager. Sam snatched the phone off the wall and dialled. “Hey,” he said to the nurse who answered, “this is Doctor Campbell, responding to an urgent page?”

“Get your ass over here,” Meg said.

“I’m not working today,” Sam told her, frowning, “Meg, I think you paged the wrong doctor.”

Meg clicked her tongue in distaste. “I know who I paged and I paged who I meant,” she snapped, “Get to the ER, _now_. I’ve got a patient here you’re gonna to want to see.”

She didn’t need to tell him twice.

He drove as fast as he possibly could, breaking the speed limit and running every yellow light as he hurried to the hospital, something about Meg’s clipped, almost anxious tone propelling him onward. His limbs were heavy as he hit the gas, but his mind was racing: what could be so important that Meg would page _him_ in on a day off? He didn’t even pay for parking once he arrived—he’d pay the ticket, he just needed to get in there and find out what was going on. His poor, burnt-out nerves couldn’t take anymore surprises.

Bounding into the ER, Sam caught Meg’s eye across the crowded waiting room, not hesitating in his stride as she pointed him in the direction of the east wing. Sam pushed past a crowd of perturbed patients waiting for intake, and sprinted down the hall, not know exactly where he was going, but trusting his gut to find it.

For once, it didn’t steer him wrong. Two well dressed men, FBI agents if the badges clipped to their belts were any indication, were exiting one of the private rooms as he rounded the corner. Sam recognized Gideon immediately (again), and the other, judging by his stern demeanor, he assumed was Agent Hotchner. Two members of Spencer’s team, and they were exiting an examination room, not the morgue. That was as good a sign as he was going to get.

He quickly ducked inside a supply closet, holding a finger to his lips in a signal to be quiet to the crying intern who was already occupying it, and watched through the crack in the door as both the agents disappeared down the hall towards intake. His heart was hammering, he felt like he was floating, alive for the first time since Charlie had shown him that damn video, and Sam wasted no time running down the hall, ducking inside the room and slumping against the door in relief at who he saw there.

Spencer stared at him in shock from his bed, swaddled in a hospital gown. He looked exhausted, dehydrated and injured, his leg in a splint and his arms bandaged around his IV, but very much alive.

 _Thank you, God._ “Spencer,” Sam murmured, not believing his eyes.

Spencer smiled weakly, his lower lip trembling. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Sam said, crossing the room and seating himself on the edge of Spencer’s bed, giving in to the urge to stroke his cheek with his fingertips. He needed to touch him, he needed to make sure he was really there, “How—”

Clapping his hand over Sam’s, Spencer pressed his palm to his cheek. He was warm, present, and so very much alive. “I love you,” he said, so quickly Sam nearly missed it. Lacing his fingers around the back of Sam’s neck, Spencer tugged him down, their foreheads resting against one another, and he looked up into his eyes, just as tired and relieved as his own, “Sam, I love—”

His heart swelled, and Sam surged forwards, cupping both of Spencer’s cheeks as he kissed him fervently. Spencer wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders, holding him close and fisting his hands in Sam’s shirt, as though he were afraid to let him stray too far. And every time they came up for air, parting scant inches as they clung to each other, Spencer repeated his affirmation, a soft, breathless chorus, “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**10am**

“Who is that?” Hotch asked, standing side by side with an equally bewildered Gideon, watching through the window as a gigantic, long haired stranger sat at the edge of Spencer’s bed.

Gideon tilted his head to the side, “I don’t know.”

“When did he get there?”

“Less than a minute ago.”

Hotch frowned, his brow furrowing when Spencer pulled the strange man’s hand to his cheek, their faces so close to one another’s that they were practically breathing the same air. “One of Spencer’s friends?” he asked, but that was before the stranger leaned down at Spencer’s behest, kissing him heatedly.

He and Gideon turned at the same time, putting their backs to the window as the stranger climbed onto the bed in earnest, Spencer pulling him along as he reclined into the thin hospital pillows. Whether to afford Spencer and his _clearly_ more-than-a-friend some privacy, or to spare himself a sight he didn’t need to see, Hotch couldn’t say. And from the look on Gideon’s face, he was just as blindsided as him. “I didn’t know he was seeing someone,” Gideon said simply, wiping the heel of his palm against his eyes.

“Neither did I,” Hotch said, “who called him?”

Gideon shrugged. “Perhaps it’s better not to ask.”

Loosely translated: “Garcia. Who else?”

Hotch coughed awkwardly into his fist, and pointed down the hall. “We should probably…”

“ _I’m_ heading back to the office,” Gideon said, walking away before Hotch could protest, tossing him a curt, tired wave over his retreating shoulder, “ _You_ can finish signing Reid in.”

“Sure.” It wasn’t like he had a wife and kid to get home to, but yeah. He could do that. “Great.”

The gruff, dark-haired nurse thrust the paperwork at Hotch the instant he approached the front desk. She didn’t spare him a second glance, busy imputing numbers into a nearby computer, and from the look on her menacing little moon-face, he didn’t want to interrupt her. It’s not like he needed to, anyways. The many years he’d spent in this line work? This wasn’t his first intake form.

As he scratched down Reid’s basic information, however, someone else from behind the counter caught his eye. Maybe it was that they were the only one not wearing scrubs, or the Circle Jerk’s t-shirt they were wearing under their diamond and gold chain encrusted leather jacket. Or maybe it was just that Hotch, much to his chagrin, had been on the look out for those lazy blue eyes since the person they belonged to had clocked him in the face. Either way, he found he was speaking before he could stop himself, glancing up from his paperwork and calling out, “Hello, Castiel.”

Cas wheeled around, his eyebrow quirked. He probably didn’t recognize the voice, but when his eyes fell on Aaron, his perturbed expression slipped away, and his smile was just as bright in the light of day as it was in the dim, winter moonlight. “Hey, stranger,” Cas said, leaning against the counter that separated them and sipping his can of Red Bull, “don’t call me that.”

“Sorry,” Hotch said with a wince, “Cas.”

“Much better.” Cas glanced around the waiting room, “What are you doing here? Is everyone alright?”

“Yes, I’m just signing a co-worker in,” Hotch said, tapping the form he was filling out with the back of his pen, “He got a little banged up on the job, but he’s going to be fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” And to his credit, he looked genuinely relieved. “Are _you_ okay?” he asked, “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I haven’t, not really.” This kid must live in a perpetual state of concern, Aaron thought to himself, and he was loath to admit it felt nice being on the receiving end of it. “But I’m fine. And you’re one to talk—” he gestured to the Red Bull can in Cas’ hand, “how many of those have you had?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Cas shrugged, looking sheepish, “it’s like drinking water to me, at this point. I’m just here to wrap up some paperwork, then I’m hoping to sleep for the next ten hours.”

Hotch smiled, “I’m hoping to do the same.”

“What is it you do?”

“I work for the FBI.”

“Ah,” Cas flicked his gaze up and down Aaron’s jacket, “that explains the get up.”

Frowning, Hotch looked down at himself. It was just a jacket and a tie, what was so odd about that? “Not really,” he said, amused by the look Cas shot him, caught somewhere between shock and awe.  

“You just wear a suit on the daily?” Cas demanded, clearly thinking Aaron was pulling his leg. His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed to a squint, his nose scrunching curiously, and Aaron’s heart gave an uncomfortable lurch, banging against the cage of his ribs. He didn’t trust his words in that moment, so he nodded, both hating and loving the way Cas laughter stroked his ego just right.

Cas shook his head in disbelief. “That is some stone-cold commitment. I’d be impressed, if I wasn’t overcome with second-hand discomfort.”

“Don’t be,” Hotch said, grinning as he signed off on the last of Reid’s intake forms, “I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m all for dressing up when the occasion calls for it,” Cas tugged on the lapel of his bedazzled jacket, “but there’s nothing I want more right now than a pair of sweatpants, a big bowl of pasta and my bed.”

Aaron laughed again, to his amazement. It was impossible not to smile in Cas’ presence apparently, and Aaron was starting to fear his face might freeze like that. What would he tell Hayley? It’s not like she’d seen him smile in months.

 _What are you doing_? Guilt lanced through him at the thought of his wife. He was just having a conversation with someone he found interesting, right? That’s what he told himself at the very least. Someone with whom talking came easily, who he’d only met once in passing and thought that he’d forget. What was the harm in that?

But he didn’t forget him, and therein lied the problem.

When he went home the night Cas punched him in the face, he’d gone to bed worrying about what to tell his wife. The person who had given him the shiner was the furthest thing from his mind. But when he woke up the next morning, it wasn’t to a head full of excuses and apologies like he’d planned. It was to the memory of haunting blue eyes, an effervescent smile and a cutting wit that left him breathless and weak in the knees.

A momentary weakness he told himself. Nothing more.

Hayley had been furious when he lied and told her he’d been mugged, but that wasn’t a surprise. She was angry about everything lately, at least this was something valid, something she wasn’t just foisting the weight of her unhappiness upon to avoid the real crux of her problems. And Aaron had been certain that he’d thought his last of Castiel. He chalked his interest up to a momentary lapse in judgement, the ease of their conversation to his painful loneliness, and his unfortunate attraction to his strained, non-existent sex life.

Cas was just some kid he met in a park one night. Nothing more.

During the day, he thought nothing of him. At work he was too busy, his job too important to afford any distraction. And at home, he had Jack, the absolute love of his life, to whom he owed his full attention. But at night? When he lay awake in the dark of his bedroom, his back to Hayley’s and as far away from her as their king-sized mattress would allow, Cas was all he could think about, and he hated himself for it.

He hated that he kept himself up at night with the memory of his pretty smile. He detested the aching longing that tugged at his chest every time he thought about Cas’ tired eyes. He cursed his weakness, his deceit, and his subtle betrayal every time he imagined those strong hands, full lips, and sultry voice when he was alone, free to mask his shame in some anonymous hotel room or a steamy, isolated shower.

Because it was wrong, wasn’t it? He was married, and though they were going through a rough patch, he had made vows. Aaron promised her his loyalty, and he never broke a promise. That wasn’t the kind of man that he was.

But there was that nagging voice in the back of his mind, the devil on his shoulder, the inner saboteur that told him there was nothing wrong with a little fantasy. It wasn’t like he was cheating on Hayley; of course not, he wouldn’t dream of it. He was just letting his mind wander, allowing himself to latch on to a subject he found interesting, an attractive, intelligent, and virtually anonymous young man he hardly knew. And after all, he wouldn’t be angry with Hayley if the shoe were on the other foot. Quite the contrary, he knew why she went to yoga five days a week. It wasn’t because she enjoyed the work out, or she would go to a studio that wasn’t across town, one that wasn’t run by an instructor who looked like _Daryl_.

So, maybe he’d made allowances for his wandering mind. Cas was a fantasy that he reserved for himself, that he took off the shelf on nights when the solitude pushed in a little to close. Nothing more.

Kind of threw a wrench in it though, to have Cas standing right in front of him.

He couldn’t pretend the ease of their conversation was all in his head when Cas was right there speaking to him. It was a lot harder to ignore how simple Cas made it to smile and laugh around him, how comfortable Aaron was in his presence, and what a weight he felt lift off his shoulders just by virtue of Cas’ own levity.

And just one look at him proved Aaron couldn’t deny his attraction, either.

He looked different in the light of day—he looked _better_ (something Aaron didn’t think were possible). He also looked incredibly young (something that made Aaron feel like an even bigger pervert; another thing he didn’t think possible). His jacket was outrageous, black leather studded with red and white gemstones, gold chains and fringe, and whatever the Circle Jerks were, Cas had cut the sleeves off their t-shirt, which hung loose and caressed the waist of his obscenely low-rise jeans. He was definitely wearing makeup, just mascara and eyeliner, but more than Aaron had seen on a man during the light of day, and his hair… Jesus, he looked like he’d been running his hands through it, messy and perfect and dark—

 _What the_ hell _was wrong with him?_

If anything, seeing Cas like this should have quashed any feelings Aaron had for him at all. He was sexy, but not in a “do a double take when you pass him in the street” kind of way. No, Cas was that special kind of gorgeous that screamed, “I’m gonna ruin your life and key your car, and you’ll still thank me for it after.”

He was trouble.

He was dangerous.

He was staring at Aaron like he’d said something wrong.

No, he was staring at Aaron because Aaron hadn’t said anything to him in a hot minute.

Aaron had just been leering at him like a lecherous old man.

 _A lecherous old man who is still one-hundred-percent_ married.

That snapped him out of it. Aaron shoved the forms he’d been working on across the counter with such force, he was amazed they didn’t launch into the air. “Please,” he said, planning on beating a hasty retreat with is tail tucked between his legs, “don’t let me keep you.”

If Cas was perturbed by his prolonged silence, he brushed it off fast. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” he said, taking Aaron’s forms and flipping through them, “if you hang around this place too long, you end up getting sucked in, whether you’re supposed to be working or not. And I just spent the last twenty-seven hours here.”

Hotch was supposed to be leaving. He should have been halfway out the door by then, but Cas stopped him in his tracks. And though he was furious with his own lack of self-control, something he’d prided himself on before he met this guy, Aaron hesitated and asked, “I thought it was the doctors that had the rough hours?”

Cas scoffed. “Everyone thinks that; it’s why they get paid the big bucks,” he said, rolling his eyes, “But nurses? We do all the real work, and get none of the credit, either.”

Smiling despite himself, once again, Aaron promised, “I’ll never make that mistake, again.”

Cas handed his chart off to the angry little nurse without looking at her, an odd expression on his face as he studied Aaron once again. He was cautious, weighing something out on his mind, all the while unaware he was incapable of keeping his emotions from showing in his face. “I should,” he said, gesturing with a thumb to the door, suddenly so demure that Aaron almost missed it, “Um…”

“Oh!” Cas needed to go. Good! Good, so did he. “Yes, sorry. Good bye.”

“Bye,” Cas said softly, waving.

He had his out. He’d said goodbye. He should have taken that and ran with it, all the way out of the hospital and to his car. But for some god unknown reason, something possessed him to pause halfway through turning away from the counter so he could say, “It was good running into you again, Cas.”

His nose scrunched up with how brightly he smiled at him. “You too, Aaron,” Cas said, pointing to his face, “And I’m glad I didn’t mess up your nose.”

 _Why won’t you just leave?_ “You gave it the old college try,” Aaron said, thumbing at his nose, “It whistled for a while, but managed to sorted itself out.”

Cas had the good grace to cover his grin with his hand. “God, I’m so sorry.”

 _The door is_ right there _! Leave!_ “Don’t be,” he said, “I told my team you were three huge guys who tried to mug me. I came in to free donuts all week.”

“You’re welcome.”

 _Please leave?_  “I’ll, um…” Aaron took a step back from the counter, nodding his head towards the door, “I’ll—”

“Yeah, I really need to—” Cas took a step back as well, grabbing his bag from the floor and looping it over his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Aaron nodded.

“Bye.” Cas waved.

Looking back, he’d like to think he didn’t run out of the emergency room. But he came damn close to power walking out of there. And when he finally slid into the driver’s seat of his car, slamming the door shut behind him, Aaron slumped forwards over his steering wheel in defeat, adrenaline, attraction, and white-hot guilt making his stomach twist and turn uncomfortably.

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

That cinched it.

He could never accidentally run into Cas again.

 

 

 

 

**10:30am**

“Who’s the stud?” Meg asked, nudging Cas in the ribs with her bony little elbow.

Frick, he’d forgotten she was there. “Just some guy,” he lied through his teeth, willing the flush that was quickly rising to his cheeks to _go away_.

“Wow, I have _never_ seen you so flustered.” Meg slid her chair closer to him, pulling herself along with the edge of the counter so she could see his face. “He’s not just some guy,” she decided, a conniving grin stretching across her face, “You like him.”

It took him by surprise how on the money she was, but she knew him well. He didn’t like people, he didn’t have silly little crushes, and he wasn’t interested in Aaron. Desperate to keep believing his own lies, he glared at her sternly, “Meg.”

Meg barked out a laugh. “Oh, you _like_ him!” she said, her eyes widening in delight, “He’s hunky, Clarence. Why’re you letting him get away?”

He didn’t like him. He didn’t _like_ people. Besides, “He’s married.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Meg said, shrugging her shoulders.

_Jeez, that stung._

She was right, though.

He didn’t bother saying goodbye; Meg had moved on to her next juicy piece of gossip by then, and she wouldn’t take kindly to him butting in. Besides, he’d rather leave with his tail tucked between his legs, his confidence at an all time low and his mood not faring any better.

How could such a lovely conversation leave him feeling so small? The same thing happened the last time he’d spoken to Aaron, though he was distracted enough by trying to stop his nose from gushing blood that he hardly noticed until after the fact. This time however, it was readily apparent: they got along so well, there was this instantaneous connection between them that Cas had only ever felt with one person before, and the chemistry was—

It was so unfair.

Why was it just his luck that the first person he had a crush on since he was a teenager was also happily married?

Cas groaned, pushing his hair back from his face as he walked across the ER, beelining for the door.

Why did this shit always happen to him?   

Exiting through the automatic doors, Cas took a deep breath, letting the crisp February air fill his lungs and clear his head. It was fine, he told himself. He was going to go home, where a big bowl of carbs and his awesome kid were waiting for him, whom he could pester and watch shitty B-movies with to his hearts content.

“What are you doing here?”

 _Or not._ “Relax,” Cas said, glancing up to find Crowley standing at the foot of the entrance ramp, smoking way too close to the doors, “I’m not on the clock.”

Crowley’s eyes glinted darkly, with an interest Cas was well acquainted with. “Does that mean you’re free?” he asked, taking a long haul of his filter-less cigarette.

Another stab of self-consciousness had him wrapping his arms around himself, glad he could play it off as just being cold. Meg’s pointed comment was still in the forefront of his mind, his run in with Aaron too fresh a wound, and unsurprisingly, the thought of spending another night in Crowley’s bed made him feel ill. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s a Sunday, and I feel like I haven’t seen my kid in weeks. I’m going home to make sure he’s not into anything sinister due to his lack of parental guidance.”

But Crowley, when he got it in his head that he wanted something, was loathe to back down. “What about tonight?” he asked, tapping the ash from his cigarette and leering at Castiel, cutting a swath across his body from head to toe, his gaze like a thousand grubby hands against his skin, “After Jack is asleep? You seem to have no problem sneaking out your window in the middle of the night, my dove.”

No. “Fergus,” Cas said, pulling his jacket closed, “I can’t.”

Crowley paused, his cigarette poised just above his lips, “Come again?”

Cas spotted the spark of defiance that lit his dark eyes, but he stood his ground. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Taking another long, ponderous drag of his smoke, Crowley stared Castiel down, their eyes locked as he silently dared him to break, to look away, to break. And when he exhaled, smoke pluming between them, obscuring his view, Cas expected him to protest. But instead, Crowley only shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s a shame.”

He should have taken that was a win and left. But Cas couldn’t help himself; he was a glutton for punishment, it seemed. “That’s it?” he asked.

Crowley flicked his cigarette on the ground, and stamped it beneath his foot. “Were you expecting tears? A fit?” he asked, but Cas knew it wasn’t a question, “Would you like me to beat my chest, scream for you in front of the passersby? Cause a scene?”

“No,” Cas said, shrinking back, “of course not.”

“I’ve heard this song before, Castiel.” He strode forwards, closing the scant distance between them in a flash, and before Cas could take a step back, Crowley reached out and grabbed the lapel of his jacket, pulling him closer. “How many years have we been doing this dance? You come and go. You get a notion in your pretty little head that you can take care of yourself, that you can do better, be free.” Crowley tilted his head back, his face inches from Cas’ and he refused to look at him. That didn’t stop Crowley from talking, hissing his poisonous words right into Castiel’s ear, his hot breath searing his skin, “But you always come back. When the money runs out, when you hit rock bottom, when you get lost and lonely, you always come back to me. Because a gilded cage is still better than the great, unknown nothing, isn’t it love?”

His stomach turned, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from saying something he’d regret. His face flushed hot with shame, the edges of his vision went white, and while he wanted to walk away, wanted to tell him off, he knew that Crowley was only speaking the truth. Cas just couldn’t stand to hear it. “Stop it,” he pleaded.

With an amused huff, Crowley let him go, and Cas put as much distance between them as possible, taking two huge steps back. But he still couldn’t meet his eye. “No matter,” Crowley said, entirely too pleased with himself, and as he walked past Cas into the hospital, he patted him condescendingly on the arm, “we both know who’ll come calling first. And you know where to find me.”

Crowley left him standing on the entrance ramp, oblivious to the people passing by him on their way into the hospital, too busy feeling sorry for himself. Any joviality he felt at learning Spencer was alright, at getting the chance to run into Aaron again, or being able to go home and hang out with Jack, the one thing he wanted more than anything, was quashed. Instead, in the span of ten minutes, Cas found himself standing in a daze, feeling desperately alone, used, ashamed and dirty.

 _“But_ ,” he thought to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets and heading for his car, “ _What else is new?”_


	4. Decay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are the best. Honestly, thank you for all the kind words and feedback, it keeps me motivated and helps me stay focused!
> 
> Be warned, this chapter contains drug use and torture as per the episode of CM it's based off of, and homophobia ala interpretations of the bible by riddling psychopathic murderers and used car salesmen. It also includes lots of Spencer being a freaking bad ass. 
> 
> Let me know if the format is confusing... I tried something new in regards to Spencer's flashbacks, and I can't figure out if I need to note them better or not. 
> 
> xoxo  
> JD

When he was a kid, one of the first books Spencer learned to read was the King James Bible. His mom liked when he’d recite it to her, convinced that whoever was listening to and recording her thoughts couldn’t do the same to his, since he was a child. It helped her to relax when he sat beside her in bed, her head on his shoulder as he stumbled through the verses of the old and new testament, his inexperienced tongue struggling to keep up with the speeds at which his mind could already reach.

Every line was still locked away in the vault of his brain, ready to be plucked up and taken out whenever the situation called for it. And while he didn’t put much stock in organized religion himself, nor did he believe in the existence of a higher power, he understood the influence of those words. Written purposefully, for control or elevation (depending on who you ask), Spencer knew intimately how destructive that book could be when it fell into ill, impressionable hands. He’d seen it throughout his study of history, in case after case with the FBI, and he’d seen the disastrous aftermath of religious zeal in his own life, which still harmed the person he loved to that very day.

He now knew only three things of importance.

One, that he was in danger, and had been since the moment he was clocked over the head with a shovel.

Two, that Hankel was all three unsubs in one.

And number three he gleaned just now, as he woke with a pounding headache, tied to a chair in a darkened shed filled with the scent of burning meat: that his chances for survival were hinged on his intimate knowledge of the bible.

It was the only weapon he had, and it was only going to be a stall; sooner or later, Hankel was going to lose his patience and Spencer’s number would be up. But if he could use the bible, the thing Hankel’s entire identity was predicated on, to stave off that inevitable end until his team found out where he was, he might get out alive.

And he’d be damned if he was going to die in some dirty shed, in the middle of nowhere Georgia, at the hands of a psychotic murder, without putting up a fight.

The door to the shed slammed open, and Spencer winced, the blood dried to his forehead crackling. The sound boomed in his skull and the light stung his eyes, nausea turning his stomach and confirming he did in fact have a concussion. _Great,_ he griped internally, struggling to keep his eyes open as he watched Hankel walk into the shed, his arms full with wood, and kick the door closed behind him.

But it wasn’t Hankel, was it? Something was wrong about him— his gait was off. The Hankel Spencer saw through the window of his farmhouse was nervous, his shoulders hunched from a lifetime of sitting over a keyboard and burdened with the weight of his passivity, exuding all the anxiety of a child accustomed to the smack of an open palm.

This man in front of him though was totally transformed. He looked like Hankel, obviously, but he stood straighter, his head high and shoulders back, and even as he stooped to put more wood on the fire, he did it with a magnanimity unsuited to a man of Hankel’s status. He walked with purpose, every movement poised and regal, and when he looked at Spencer, he did so with the queerest expression, caught somewhere between pity and disgust. Like he was better than him, above him in every way. Like he wasn’t even human.

_Raphael, I presume._

Spencer quickly school his expression; he had so few cards as is, and it was too soon to show his hand.

Hankel stood up from the fireplace and strode towards Spencer, stopping far to his right, just out of his field of vision. _A power move_. “They’re gone,” he said, Spencer recognizing him as the cooler headed personality from the 911 calls.

“Who are they?” Spencer asked, his voice cracking from disuse. His throat was dry, and even forcing out those three words was torturous. Perhaps he could barter some water from Tobias, if he ever surfaced again. Out of the three personalities Spencer had noted so far, he seemed the most sympathetic.

Ignoring his question, Hankel moved in front of Spencer, a few feet away from where he sat. “It’s only me now.”

Spencer chanced a look up at him, squinting his eyes against the bright light that shone through the cracks in the wood. He knew to whom he was speaking, but he wasn’t supposed to. Besides, this personality thought he was the living embodiment of an angel on earth; the chance at an introduction might stroke his ego and ingratiate him to Spencer. “Who are you?” he asked, forcing sincerity in his tone.

It was the right move. Raphael smiled solemnly, held his hands out to his sides as though he were presenting himself to a crowd of awed spectators, and said, “I am Raphael.”

 _Don’t play into his delusions_ , Gideon’s voice rang in his ear. _If you lend truth to his fantasy, you’re no longer in control._ He had to change the subject. “What’s that smell?” Spencer asked.

Raphael glanced over his shoulder to the stovetop. “They’re burning fish hearts and livers. Keeps away the devil,” he said, as though it were common knowledge. But that wasn’t what he wanted to talk about. Narrowing his eyes at Spencer, he reached behind his back and pulled a revolver from his pocket.

“They believe you can see inside men’s minds.”

Spencer’s heart dropped in his chest, his blood rushing as adrenaline flooded his system.

“That’s not true,” he stammered, his gaze snapping to the gun, never leaving it as his breathing shallowed, “I study human behaviour—”

Raphael shushed him, shaking his head in displeasure.

He didn’t want him to talk; he wanted him to listen.

“I’m not interested in the arguments of men.” He pulled a single bullet from his pocket, holding it aloft in front of Spencer’s face, “Do you know what this is? It’s God’s will.”

All pretense of control, any illusion of a plan vanished in that moment, as that single bullet disappeared into the cartridge of the revolver. He didn’t have any cards, Spencer realized, terror seizing him, drenching and freezing him to his very bones like ice cold water. He didn’t have the upper hand, he didn’t have anything to protect himself with. He was tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere Georgia, in a dirty old shed, completely at the mercy of a psychotic murderer. He was subject to Hankel’s every whim, which wasn’t just the whim of one man, but three, one of which believed he was an angel on a holy mission from God.

He could die at any moment, and there would be nothing he could do.

Fear welled in the back of his throat, and he wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, to let lose the terrified energy that was filling him up like a bottle ready to burst, pushing at his every seam. “You don’t have to do this,” he pleaded, shoving himself down in his chair as much as his bonds would allow, feeling smaller and more helpless than he ever had in his life.

Raphael smiled wryly, as though his pitiful attempts at rationalization amused him and, pointing the muzzle at Spencer’s forehead, pulled the trigger without pretense.

Spencer yelped, snapping his eyes shut.

The chamber clicked: empty.

Raphael flipped the cartridge, took the bullet from its chamber, and knelt, holding the it in front of Spencer’s face once again. “For God’s will,” he said, loading it into its proper place, and spinning the cartridge with a final whir.

 

**?**

Spencer didn’t know the time. He didn’t know the day, though he could guess it was mid-afternoon by the light that shone through the cracks in the wooden roof. How long had he been unconscious, he wondered? For that matter, how long had it been since he’d eaten? Had a drink of water? He didn’t drink enough water as it was, and he hardly ate while on a case—he was dehydrated, starving probably.

But all of that was secondary.

If he didn’t devise a plan, he would die by Hankel’s hand before he got the chance to starve.

_Think, Spencer. Think!_

Where was he? He looked around the cabin as much as the rope round his arms would allow, the chair creaking under his shifting weight. There was nothing special about it, just four walls and a roof, but somewhere in here there would be a clue. Something that would give him a hint as to where he was.

On the wall, he spotted a shovel, dirt encrusting its spade. It had been used, but not recently. The fireplace was still smoking fish hearts and livers, meaning that somewhere around here there was a river. Hankel had to have gotten them from somewhere, and Spencer doubted he stopped off at a grocer before stealing him away to… wherever this was.

So, they were somewhere undeveloped.

He strained his ears, holding his breath as he tried to hear what was beyond the crackling of the fire. No cars, but there were birds and chattering insects, vibrant despite the chilly February they’d been having.

Not near a highway or a major road, then.

They were somewhere isolated, perhaps in the woods? But he already knew he was in rural Georgia, what good did knowing they were in the wilderness do him?

 _It’s enough,_ he told himself. And he could find out more. He would. He just needed Hankel to come back. If he could manipulate him, trick him into giving up more information, then Spencer could devise a plan to get himself out of there. Or at the very least, he could figure out a way to play the situation and keep himself alive until his team got there.

It was a long shot, but he had to try.

The door slammed open again, and Spencer startled, looking up before he could stop himself. The man that walked into the cabin still wasn’t Tobias, but neither was he Raphael. He glared at Spencer, and in a gruff, miserable voice asked, “What are you staring at, boy?”

“You’re not Raphael,” Spencer said, licking his parched lips.

Not-Tobias stood straighter, his hands balling into fists, and Spencer feared for a moment he might strike him. “Do I look like Raphael?” he demanded.

Spencer shook his head quickly, averting his gaze. This one didn’t like to be confronted, he realized, and hoped that his deference would be enough to quell the rage he could hear in his voice. Whatever personality this was, he was the aggressor; Spencer knew that just by looking at him. He was the one responsible for the brutally efficient murders, and if he wanted to survive the night, Spencer needed to keep him calm.

If Not-Tobias lost his temper, he would be completely at his mercy.

 _Try and ingratiate yourself to him_. _It might help to keep him calm_.

It could backfire though, if Not-Tobias thought he was trying to pull a fast one on him, or that he was being insincere. He decided to chance it. “Thank you for burning those,” Spencer said, canting his head towards the stove, “for keeping us safe.”

His heart sank as Not-Tobias turned towards him, his teeth bared in a hateful snarl. _Swing and a miss._ “Don’t try to trick me,” he hissed.

Spencer stammered, “I would never try to trick you.”

Not-Tobias stomped over to him. “You’re a liar.”

“I’m not a liar,” Spencer said, pushing back into his chair. His blood was pounding through his veins, his mind racing, screaming at him to _fix it_ but coming up blank. 

When Not-Tobias leaned forwards, clamping his hands down hard over Spencer’s bound wrists, he had to bite his cheeks to hold back a frightened whimper. He couldn’t show him fear, Spencer knew that. If he showed Not-Tobias that he was afraid, it would feed into his power fantasy, and Spencer would surely die. But on the other hand, if he showed him that he wasn’t afraid, it would be seen as an act of defiance, which would in turn anger Not-Tobias, and Spencer would surely die. He knew he needed to remain impassive, to give him nothing to react to. He _knew_ this.

But knowing the right thing to do was worlds apart from actually doing them, when your life was on the line.

“Lying’s a sin,” Not-Tobias said, pushing down on Spencer’s wrists so hard that his bones ground against the solid, unforgiving armrests.

Spencer winced at the pain, and this time a whimper broke free, bringing with it the panic he was trying to hold at bay. He repeated over in his mind, be a rock, be strong, but it was no use. He couldn’t pretend to be brave when he was being terrorized, and the tears he had been restraining flooded his vision as he sobbingly declared, “I’m _not_ a liar.”

Not-Tobias didn’t like that one bit. He clicked his tongue in disgust, dropping Spencer’s wrists and stepping away like he couldn’t stand the pitiful sight of him. “This will be over quickly if you just confess your sins,” he said, cracking his knuckles before grasping the zipper of his jacket and tugging it down.

 _What the hell was he doing?_ Spencer took a big gulp of air, following every movement Not-Tobias made. It was chilly in the cabin, despite the heat from the fire—why was he taking his jacket off? _Don’t think about it_ , he told himself, though suddenly it was _all_ he could think about. It was all he could focus on, the not-so-subtle movements of his hands as he stripped off his outer layer and dropped it to the floor.

“I’m not a sinner,” Spencer pleaded, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“We’re all sinners,” Not-Tobias said, before doing the thing Spencer was hoping he wouldn’t.

He unbuckled his belt.

No. _No_. It rang like a chorus in his head as Spencer kicked out his legs, trying in vain to push himself away, his feet skidding on the slatted wooden floor. _Not that_.

He couldn’t—he couldn’t be. This was a man who believed he was on a mission from God, who had murdered a woman in cold blood because she cheated on her husband. There was no evidence of sexual assault in his profile.

 _You’re jumping to conclusions_ , he told himself, but as Not-Tobias slipped his belt from its loops, he started to sob all the same. His breath jumped up and down in his throat, catching at his esophagus, not making it to his lungs. His vision blurred, his every muscle tensed as he strained backwards, away from the man in front of him, and for once in his life, he could think of nothing. His mind was awash of fear, and it drowned out every rational, logical piece of him in its deafening roar.

Spencer yelped as Not-Tobias lunged forwards, kicking his feet out in a last-ditch effort to keep him away. To his surprise, Not-Tobias came no closer. Instead, he grabbed one of his flailing legs and…

Took off his shoe?

 _Do something! Think, for fucks sake!_ Spencer tried to pull his leg back, but Not-Tobias held on tightly. What good was an IQ of 180 if it left him to his own devices when he truly needed it? Not-Tobias crouched, pinching Spencer’s foot between his knees, and Spencer, unable to formulate a plan, just reacted, saying the first thing that popped into his head, “The Lord spake unto Moses saying, ‘speak unto all the congregation of the Lord and say thy shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God am holy.’”

Not-Tobias paused, and Spencer moaned in relief. “You know Leviticus?”

“I know every word of the bible.” He spoke so quickly his words nearly ran together, “I can recite it for you.”

“The Devil knows how to read, too.”

Spencer whimpered, tugging his foot back uselessly; Not-Tobias held it tight. “I’m not a devil, I’m not,” he pleaded, “I’m a man, my name is Spencer Reid and I have a mother, and a father just like you, and they taught me the bible. Let me just—let me recite the bible—”

Not-Tobias shook his head. “Time to confess, Spencer Reid.”

Folding the belt in half, he snapped it down five times, all in rapid succession, against the bottom of Spencer’s bare foot.

If he hadn’t felt the force of it tearing from his throat, Spencer wouldn’t have recognized the sound he made as his own. It was animalistic, a hybridized yelp and scream that sounded like it should have burst from the mouth of a wounded dog, not a human. His entire body seized in pain, the feet of the chair skidding against the floor, and were Hankel not holding his foot in a death grip, he was certain he’d have toppled backwards onto the ground.

“Confess,” was all Not-Tobias had to say.

Would that he could. Spencer gritted his teeth, forcing air into his lungs in the brief reprieve, using the pain to ground himself. “I don’t have anything to confess,” he said, bracing himself for the next hit.

This time when he cried, it was less out of shock and more out of unadulterated pain. His foot was already raw and swollen, blood pooling near the surface of his skin from the impact of Not-Tobias’ previous blows. And this time, when he cracked the belt against the arch of his feet, Spencer felt his skin tear, hot, sticky blood running down his heel and dripping onto the floor.

“Confess,” Not-Tobias repeated, and all Spencer could muster in answer was a despairing, useless sob.

**Dark.**

“What’s your name?” Spencer croaked between sips of blessedly cold water. His foot ached, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart, but he’d been left alone for long enough that the bleeding had stopped. It was nighttime when Hankel came back, and Spencer hadn’t the energy to fret by then. He was exhausted, slipping in and out of consciousness, but when Hankel pressed the cup of water to his parched, cracked lips and told him to drink, he hadn’t hesitated. 

This couldn’t be either of the personalities he’d met before, and there was only one left. “Tobias,” Spencer whispered, getting his confirmation when Hankel glanced up at him, his eyes childish and wide, “who was here before?”

Tobias shrugged sheepishly. “Probably my father. I’m sorry if he hurt you.”

He was kind, Spencer realized, taking another sip of water when it was offered to him.

_Thank God._

But he couldn’t take this as a reprieve. If he were to stand any chance of making it out alive, he needed to use Tobias. The other two were a lost cause; Hankel’s father (Charles, his memory supplied him) was on guard and Raphael was an angel who didn’t see Spencer as anything more than an annoying little gnat. Tobias was Hankel’s humanity, and Spencer needed to appeal to him for help if he wanted his freedom.

Still, he could at least take this moment to breathe.

Spencer let his eyes flutter closed, sleep playing at the edges of his consciousness, and he hardly registered Hankel there at all. He needed his brain back at full capacity, and to do that, he needed rest. He couldn’t tell the time, but it was dark, and the bird calls that had haunted him during the day had been replaced by the hum of crickets, lulling him toward sleep. Just a little rest, he decided, leaning his head into the cradle of the chair’s backrest, the few sips of water he had soothing the burning in his throat, and his throbbing foot becoming nothing more than a distant memory.

But the clink of a belt buckle wrenched him awake again.

He gripped the armrests tight, looking down at Tobias where he knelt by his side, pulling his belt from its loops. “What are you doing?” Spencer asked, every muscle in his body going taut as his blood flooded with adrenaline, wanting to move, to run. But he was tied down like a disobedient dog, and his captor was removing his belt for the second time that day, one which was already stained with Spencer’s blood.

The first time had ended in him sobbing uncontrollably, begging Charles to stop as he insisted he wasn’t a sinner, but this wasn’t _Charles._ It was Tobias, who wasn’t a sadist. So, what the hell could he be doing?

He got his answer when Tobias started wrapping the belt around Spencer’s arm like a tourniquet. “No,” Spencer moaned, trying to jostle his arm out of Tobias’ reach in vain, “don’t… please, don’t.”

Tobias wouldn’t be swayed. “It helps,” he insisted, pulling a vial and an unpackaged, clearly _used_ syringe from his pocket, “He doesn’t know they’re here.”

Spencer whimpered, scuffing his bare feet haplessly across the floor. He caught a part of the label, “DILAU—“ before the text disappeared with the curve of the vial, into Tobias’ muddy palm. Dilaudid, drug store heroin. Trade name of Hydromorphone, accession number DB000327. Highly addictive. 100% bioavailability if administered intravenously.

Which, judging by the syringe in his hands, is what Tobias was planning on.

 _How many times has he used that syringe?_ Spencer wondered, wincing as he watched Tobias use more force than he should need to pierce the vials foil cap. _How many_ people _had used that syringe_? Tobias didn’t seem the type to go to a needle exchange, and he clearly didn’t have many on hand. It was dull, well used, and Spencer found he needed to thrust any thought of contracting a blood borne illness from his mind, lest he lose what little composure he had left.

He couldn’t risk that; his ability to think was all he had in this place.

Dilaudid would rob him of that. He remembered breaking his wrist once when he was in the academy, and one of the nurses who’d treated him had given him a morphine drip to keep him from crying. The rest of his stay in the hospital had been a pleasant one, but while he felt like he was floating and calm, he could barely string two words together to form a coherent sentence, and for days following his release, he found himself daydreaming more than normal. It took a solid week for him to return to normalcy.

If Tobias drugged him, he would be at a greater disadvantage than he already was. “Please,” Spencer begged, “I don’t want it. I don’t want it!”

“Trust me,” Tobias said, expertly flicking off the tip of the needle and finding a vein in Spencer’s skinny arm.

“Please don’t…” Spencer said, catching Tobias eye and holding it, hoping his entreating gaze could convince him where his words could not.

He winced when the needle pieced his skin, scowled in pain as the caustic medicine seared under his skin, but quickly, faster than he’d ever expected, the pain was gone. Relief rushed through his body, washing over his tense muscles and leaving them lax and pliant, rolling across his limbs and spreading out along the highway of his circulatory system like warm, rolling floodwaters. He tried to fight it, however futile an endeavor it was, but the more he was taken under its calming waves, the more he didn’t want to, and the more he gave in to this sinister thing that was infecting him down to his very last cell.

Spencer’s head lolled as the drug reached its soothing tendrils up his arteries to his brain, synapses firing behind his rolled back eyes, and he swore he could see them, exploding like transformers in a storm. Like showering sparks drifting up in the air, up, _up,_ and then slowly down, first bright then fading to nothingness. His body hummed, his skin lifting painlessly from his muscles, his muscles from his bones, and all the tension of his twenty-four years of living slipped through the cracks left behind and sloughed to the dirty floor.

He moaned embarrassingly loud, so lasciviously that were his hands free and he in his right mind, he would have clapped them over his mouth in humiliation. There was no helping it though; as his skin shivered, his toes curled in his socks, and he thought with a hysterical, giddy sense of mortification that it felt like he’d just orgasmed, his slight frame singing, vibrating in the afterglow. He didn’t, logically he knew he hadn’t, but the _feeling_ was there, that light and floaty sensation that he’d come to associate, almost Pavlovian-ly, with _Sam_.

It was a feeling that suggested lazy Sunday mornings spent under the covers of Spencer’s bed, swaddled in Sam’s thick, strong arms, pressed back against his firm, broad chest as he slowly freed himself from the easy clutches of sleep into something better than any dream. It was a feeling that harkened back to nights wrapped up in one another, sweat-slicked limbs moving in an easy tandem, building up to a breaking point where Spencer would lock his legs around Sam’s gyrating hips, guiding him deeper, coaxing him take that piece of himself he only shared with him, and reaching a zenith of perfection as Sam found his completion inside of him, _only_ him.

It was a feeling of utter contentment, one that brought him to all the moments he spent in Sam’s embrace, charming Spencer with the adoration in his gaze and bringing him higher, closer with the love permeating his every word than his lips or touch ever could.

God, how he’d missed him. How he’d longed, however childish and improbable it was, for Sam to be the next one through that cabin door, there to save him from a situation of his own foolish devising. His knight in pale blue hospital scrubs. His tragic, beautiful hero. The Orlando to his Rosalind.

Spencer slept then, Sam’s name a ghost on his lips, and the memory of Tobias Hankel, his capture, and his tenuous grasp on life no more than a terrible dream.

 

**January 27 th, 2007**

It was a painfully frigid Sunday, and far too early in the morning to be standing in a used car lot, but Spencer was a man on a mission.

He’d devised his plan the night before, and surreptitiously lured to Sam to bed early with the promise of sex and a hearty breakfast. And while he’d ponied up on the sex (when Sam had spent the latter half of the evening shirtless, studying for his rheumatology clinicals while doing push ups in Spencer’s living room, how could he not?) he’d insisted on making a quick detour before breakfast.

It was hard enough to coax Sam out of bed and into his clothes with nothing but the promise of greasy spoon eggs and bacon. Now that he was out in the cold, despite being swaddled in his winter gear, Spencer was having an even _more_ trying time just keeping him there. 

Sam scowled at him over the hood of a 1998 Honda, his hands shoved in his mittens, shoved in his parka pockets, and all that was visible of his face were his eyes, narrowing at Spencer from the gap between his toque and scarf. “Why are we here, Spence?” he asked, his voice muffled behind the plaid woolen shawl wrapped around his mouth.

Spencer shuddered as a crisp wind whipped through the empty lot, and he pulled his pea-coat tighter around his slim frame. He was wearing layer upon layer of thick, warm sweaters, but the cold was bitter that morning, and it seeped through to his skin, settling in his bones. “You need a car,” he replied, craning his neck to glance around the lot, which was completely empty save for them. There wasn’t even a salesperson in sight, though Spencer thought he spotted someone through the dealership window.

“I _have_ a car,” Sam said.

“No, you have your brother’s car,” Spencer told him, flattening his gloved palms against the hood of the Honda, peering through the windshield, disappointed when he spotted the fabric seats and manual steering, “You need your own.”

Crossing his arms petulantly over his chest, Sam asked, “Says who?”

Spencer looked up at him disbelievingly. “You!” he said. Did he seriously not remember? They’d talked about it just last week… Sam was the one who brought it up in the first place!

“When?” Sam asked.

 _Oh_ , Spencer realized, _he’s just messing with me._ Spencer sighed, “Are we going to do this at every lot we visit?”

Pursing his lips, Sam tilted his head side to side like he was weighing the prospect. “Perhaps,” he decided.

Spencer turned on his heel and walked away, making a beeline for a puke-green Toyota.

“You know,” Sam said, catching up easily and matching Spencer’s pace, “when I mentioned wanting to get my own car, I was thinking a few months down the line. Not the very next week.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Spencer asked, “Why wait? No time like the present.”

“And the present has to be nine in the morning on a Sunday?” Sam reached out and grabbed Spencer by the crook of his elbow, “Hey.” Spencer paused, half because he was forcibly halted, and half on account of the concerned tone of Sam’s voice. He shifted to face him, caught off guard by Sam’s worried gaze, “Is something wrong?”

Spencer shook his head. “No, of course not.”

By the look in his eye, Spencer could tell Sam was onto him. But he didn’t want to have this conversation, not in public and certainly not before he had his third coffee, so he tried to pull his arm away, the puke-green Toyota calling to him like a siren studded rock to a ship captain.

Sam held fast, tugging him back. “Far be it for me to argue with you baby,” he said, the endearment rolling off his tongue so effortlessly that Spencer swooned before he could stop himself, “but you’re acting shifty and that usually means you’ve got a bee in your bonnet. So, spill it.”

 _Nope_. Spencer screwed up his nose. Just like that, the spell was broken. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Spencer replied, shaking his arm free and finally making it to the Toyota, glancing from the 2002 licence plate to the price and doing some quick, mental math.

“Yeah?” Sam was behind him in second and, with gentle, leading hands on his shoulders, turned Spencer around. He closed the distance between them, forcing Spencer to basically sit against the hood of the car, boxing him in with his body. With nowhere to go, Spencer glared somberly at Sam as he asked, “Then why do you look like you’ve just stepped in something?”

Spencer scrunched his nose, again.

“There!” Sam pointed a finger at his face, “Right there, that thing with your nose, you just did it again!”

Damn it, when did he develop a tell!? “Look, Sam, can we please—”

Something smacked against the hood of the car, and Spencer leapt off it with an ungainly yelp. He wheeled around, his shoulders knocking against Sam’s chest as he backed up into him, staring wide eyed at the salesman who’d suddenly materialized.

He was a short, portly fellow with kind eyes, wearing a suit underneath his big winter coat, and he waved at them with one mitten wrapped hand. “Morning gentleman!” he said, his lapel covering his mouth, but his smile reached his eyes, “She’s a beaut, huh?” Spencer blinked at him dumbly for a second, before realizing he was talking about the car. “Only five years old, great mileage and we just tuned her up, so you can drive her off the lot today. Care for a test drive?”

Before Spencer could respond, Sam shook his head. “No thank you,” he said, grabbing Spencer by the arm again and guiding him away, “we were actually just leaving.”

“Oh, you can shop around to your hearts content, but you aren’t gonna find a better price in the city, I promise you.” Would you look at that. Spencer didn’t need to protest, the salesman did it for him. “What are you folks looking for, might I ask?”

“A four-door compact, no older than 2000,” Spencer answered before Sam could cut in.

Sam gave him a look, and Spencer shrugged. They were already there, what was the harm in shopping around?

The salesman laughed sharply. “The man knows what he wants!” He walked them over to a cherry red compact, “Corolla E110, manufactured 2001, just three years on the road. Only 36,000 miles on it, too.”

Spencer looked over at Sam expectantly, who shrugged back. “Anything in black?” he asked.

“Only 2500 if you buy her today,” the salesman said as he showed them a sleek, if rusty, Mustang.

His desire to close was clearly waning every second they kept him out in the cold with no sign they wanted to buy, and Sam (out of pity or seeing an opportunity) said, “I think we’re just looking for now.”

It was a little insulting how quickly this salesman went from resigned to relieved, but Spencer just chalked it up to their indecisiveness. “Oh, certainly!” the man said, bringing his mitted hands up to his face and blowing on them, attempting to work some heat back into his extremities. He asked Spencer, “Is your big brother here helping you find your first car?”

“Brother?” Spencer echoed, taken off guard.

“I’m not his brother,” protested Sam.

The salesman held his hands out in his defense. “I didn’t mean to offend!” he said, though he didn’t sound all that apologetic, especially when he followed up with, “Your brothers got a baby-face, that’s all.”

Spencer frowned. Why would he tack that on again, when he was already corrected, twice? Obviously, he was ignoring that fact, but the reason for that which made the most sense seemed too out of his comfort zone for Spencer to think about now. He leveled the salesman with a stern look, willing to give him the benefit of the doubt as he said again, “he’s not—”

Or at least, he tried. Spencer shot Sam a confused look, catching his eye over the salesman’s shoulder and hoping to confirm his suspicions as the salesman interrupted him, “I’ve always said buying a car should be a family affair.”

Yup. Sam’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and it was clear that whatever discomfort Spencer was feeling from this conversation, Sam also shared.

“He’s not my brother,” Sam said, his tone steady and measured, but the playful pout that had graced his handsome face all morning long had disappeared. The spirited glint in his eye that had assured Spencer that while he wasn’t impressed, he was still in a good mood, was gone. And in its place was an expression Spencer hadn’t seen in some time. It was the same dark, foreboding glare he’d shot at Eldon when he was being a freaking pig towards Cas. An ominous, semi-vicious stare that Spencer never would have believed his gentle Sam could give, if he’d not witnessed it first hand.

It was a look that told him whatever Spencer was picking up on in this uncomfortable conversation wasn’t all in his head. It wasn’t that he was missing some sort of subtle social cue that made it acceptable to anyone other than him; this jerk _was_ trying to get under their skin, taking jabs at them because he thought he could, because he felt entitled to do so. And this time, when his brain supplied him with the most likely reason, despite desperately wanting to ignore it, Spencer found he couldn’t. Even though it made his face flush a dark, mortified red, and his breath catch fast with anger, he couldn’t look or even walk away from this stranger who had decided it was within his right to actively belittle them.

What was he supposed to do? Spencer wondered. He’d never encountered a homophobe in the wild, before. 

The salesman turned to look at Sam, who stood a foot taller than him, and sneered despite it. “Whatever,” he said, shoving his hands back in his pockets and squaring his shoulders, “I don’t need the gory details; does your girlfriend want a test drive or not?”

Spencer’s heart jumped in his chest, lurching uncomfortably. He took a quick look around the lot, suddenly needing to confirm they were still alone, that this frankly embarrassing exchange wasn’t turning into a public display. He just wanted to leave, to get back in their car and drive away, and one look at Sam’s fiery expression told him he was pressed for time on that front.

Sam was nearly dwarfing the salesman now, standing at his full height with his fists balled at his sides, and Spencer feared that the only thing that could drag him off that lot now would be a police escort and a set of handcuffs. “Excuse me?” Sam hissed, stepping forwards until he was toe to toe with the salesman.

To his credit, despite being the David to Sam’s Goliath, the salesman didn’t flinch. “You heard me,” he snapped, “whatever you two do on your own time is your business, but you don’t get to come on to my lot and expect me to cater to your—” he held up his hands, air-quoting through the mittens, “’alternative lifestyle.’ We’re a family business, and as much as I won’t stop you from buying a car—hell, I’ll even sell you one, I ain’t no bigot—” Spencer snorted cynically, and the man glared at him over his shoulder, “I’d appreciate you getting out of my dealership before the after-church crowd comes knocking.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched tight, the tendons of his neck standing out about the curl of his scarf. And despite the mittens, Spencer could see his fingers flexing, stretching out before curling into fists, and he quickly shook his head, silently pleading with Sam that they just go, _just leave_. The last thing he wanted was to spend anymore time around this jerk, and if Sam clocked him, they’d have to see him for the rest of the day, cops included.

Blessedly, Sam backed down at Spencer’s request. Not completely, mind you: he was still strung tight as a bow and he was trying his hardest to burn the dudes face off with the intensity of his stare, but he relented in the end. “Fuck you,” he hissed in the guys face, before grabbing Spencer by the crook of the elbow and all but dragging him towards their car.

“Fuck you too!” the man screamed after them, Sam cutting him off before he could finish the rest of his tirade by slamming the Impala door, “You filthy fucking fa—"

The engine roared to life, and Sam didn’t hesitate to peal out of the drive, tires squealing against the tarmac as he sped out into the empty streets.

The radio chattered some random talk station, but it was a dim hum in the background to Spencer who, now that they had some privacy and a little bit of space between them and that jackass, was only just beginning to process. “Did that—” he stammered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the lot, “did that really just happen?”

“Yup.” Sam said, his fingers flexing around the wheel, “That fucking homophobic—”

“Prick!” Spencer interjected, moving the rear-view mirror so he could glare at the dealership that was disappearing into the background, “Who the hell does he think he is?” He climbed up onto his knees and swiveled in his seat, staring out the rear windshield, “Did you catch his name?”

“He was about to catch my fist with his face.” Sam clicked his tongue and gave Spencer a sharp shove on his shoulder, “Sit down! And put your seatbelt on, before you hurt yourself.”

“He’s not chasing us,” Spencer griped, slumping into his seat and securing his seatbelt like he’d been told to, “you don’t need to drive like a maniac.”

“And you know how to sit properly in a car, but that’s not stopping you.”

“That’s never happened to me before,” Spencer said, surprised to find he needed to forcibly regulate his breathing, his heart hammering so hard in his chest it knocked all sense out of his lungs.

“Me neither.”

“I’m so angry.” Spencer held his hands out in front of him, watching them tremble, “Look, I’m shaking I’m so furious.”

Sam slammed his fist into the steering wheel, shaking the chassis with the force of its impact, “I should have decked him, right in his stupid, smug face.”

“Do you want to go back?” Spencer asked.

“What?”

“Do you want to go back?” Sam slowed down a little, casting a curious glance Spencer’s way. “I’ll hold his arms down, and you can—” Spencer held his fists up like a boxer in a ring, miming a jab with his right hand, his swipe pitifully weak as he peered at Sam enthusiastically over his curled fists.

Sam practically melted at the sight of him, his brows drawing together as he bemoaned, “Oh, that’s just not fair.”

“What’s not?” Spencer asked with a frown.

Sam reached out with one blindly searching hand, glancing over periodically as he attempted to turn onto a side road one handed. “I can’t stay mad at anyone when you’re around,” Sam said, finally snatching up one of Spencer’s fists and tugging it towards his lips, kissing each knuckle reverently through his gloves, “you’re too frickin’ adorable.”

“That wasn’t the reaction I was going for,” Spencer said when Sam finally relinquished his hand, that simple contact enough to cool his head, just a little, “but I’ll take it.”

Sam chuckled. “Sorry baby, but Apollo Creed you’re not.” Trying to switch between the gas and the brake, Sam banged his knee off the steering wheel and cursed, the car jolting, “Damn it! You’re almost as tall as I am, why do you need the bench so far up?”

“You don’t need to drive, you know. Here,” Spencer pointed to the sidebar, “pull over and we can switch.”

Doing as he was told, Sam rolled to a stop at the side of the road, putting the car in park. Spencer knew he should get out and walk around, eager to forgo car shopping for the rest of the day in favor of climbing back into bed with Sam and a bottle of wine, forgetting that unfortunate altercation ever happened. But he found himself momentarily trapped under Sam’s concerned stare as he asked, “You okay?”

Spencer nodded. “I’m fine. Are you?”

“Yeah, I am now. Nothing like a bigot to ruin a good argument, huh?”

“We weren’t arguing, per say.”

“No,” Sam said, looking down at his hands where they curled together in his lap, “I was trying to talk and you kept shutting me down.”

 _Oh yeah. That._ “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just tell me what’s up.” Sam slid closer to him on the bench, his gaze so sweet, so overwhelmingly supportive that Spencer crumpled under its weight. “Why are you so fixated on getting me a new car?”

They’d had a conversation like this before, but Spencer knew for a fact he hadn’t been entirely honest. He couldn’t be, not when whatever discomfort he felt was peanuts in comparison to what Sam must feel daily. But when Sam mentioned wanting a new car, he’d seen it as a perfect opportunity. Because, as he told Sam now, “I can’t ride in the Impala anymore.”

Sam sat back against the driver’s side door, “Okay…”

“I could ignore it at first, but that was mostly so you wouldn’t catch on to the fact that I… you know, knew.” He didn’t look mad, just confused, though Spencer couldn’t stopper his rambling, haphazard explanation, guilt taking hold of his tongue and spurring him on, “but every time I’m in here— even right now, right this second, it’s like I can see every crime scene photo, the names and faces of everyone John hurt in here, and I—”

“Spence, it’s okay—”

“No, it’s not.” Spencer spat, so very angry with himself. Even the comforting weight of Sam’s hand on his knee didn’t help, “It’s not okay, because I’m taking your trauma, turning it around and focusing it on me, which is horrible, but I’ve tried to get past it and ignore it, and I can’t! I just—” He gestured around the car, asking, “How does it not _bother_ you?”

“I’m used to it.” Sam said, shrugging in a very atypical Sam fashion in the face of an uncomfortable situation. “A lot of horrible shit happened in this car and I get why you, someone who only knows about the awful stuff, would fixate on that. But I have a lot of good memories in this car, too. Dean and I lived in it our whole lives, and I guess when I drive it… I don’t know, it doesn’t remind me of the bad times. It just reminds me of my brother.”

Sam looked out the window as he talked about Dean, and Spencer grabbed his hand, squeezing reassuringly. “I would never ask you to get rid of it,” he said, “Ever.”

“That’s good,” Sam said gravely, “because I won’t. I made a promise to Dean that I intend to keep. But I can get another car, if that would make you more comfortable.”

 “It would,” Spencer said, “It would be healthier for you, too. Put some distance between what happened in your past and where you are in the present.”

Sam snorted. “Now you sound like my therapist.”

“He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.”

“She does.”

“Well...” Spencer pursed his lips, cheeks flushing, “open mouth, insert foot.”

A car tore down the street going well above the speed limit, jostling the Impala as they sped past. “I’m sorry I pushed you to talk to me,” Sam said, sidling across the bench until they were sitting side by side, their thighs pressed against one another as he wrapped his arm around Spencer’s shoulder.

Spencer melted into his warmth, resting his cheek on Sam collar, his nose and mouth smothering into his scarf. “Don’t be,” he mumbled, “I know I clam up sometimes when I’m out of my comfort zone, and I appreciate that you always take the time to pull me out of it. I was acting childish by not telling you, but I swear, I was just embarrassed.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.” Sam pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, “Just because I’ve been through a traumatic experience doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel things. You can be uncomfortable with stuff, especially when it relates to my dad. I _am_ gonna ask that you tell me about it though, the next time something comes up.”

“I will, I promise.” Laying his hands in the center Sam’s chest, Spencer pushed himself up, just enough that he could look at him, “You may have to pry it out of me, though.”

“Can do.” Smiling, Sam kissed the tip of his nose, then the height of one cheek, then the other. “And I’ll get another car, but we really don’t need to go to a lot,” he continued as he kissed a path down the side of Spencer’s face, scraping his teeth against his jaw prompting a gasp, as Spencer clenched Sam’s jacket between his fingers, “Bobby owns a scrap yard and fixes up the salvageable ones for fun. He’s got like ten perfectly functional beaters on hand at any time, he’d be happy to loan me one.”

“What?” Spencer shoved him away, “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

Sam blinked owlishly, surprised to find himself pushed back against the driver’s side door, especially when he was in the middle of something, “I didn’t know you were going to drag me to a car lot the day after I mentioned wanting a new one!”

“It’s not the day after!”

“Close enough.”

“A week is not a day, Sam.”

“It’s made up of days, Spencer.”

Spencer dropped his head in his hands with an exasperated, “Oh, my god!”

Entirely pleased with how clever he thought he was, Sam laughed heartily, shaking the chassis of the car, and it was infectious enough that despite his put-upon frustration, Spencer couldn’t help but join him. “Hey.” Sam said, reaching out to him again and lacing their fingers together, “Would you like to drive up with me?”

As Spencer smiled down at their joined hands, he wondered absently if they would ever move past the point of their relationship where they needed to be touching, always. As it was, if they were near each other, they had to touch, whether a full-bodied embrace or the gentle glide of their fingers. It was as imperative as their need to breathe or sleep, a magnetic force of attraction that drew them to each others side, even from across a crowded room.

So subsumed in his wondering, he scarcely heard the question. “Where?” he asked, turning Sam’s hand over in his, tracing the lines of his palm with his fingertips, pleased that the memory of the asshole car salesman slipped away with each pass, “To Bobby’s?”

“Yeah. I figure we can drive up to South Dakota together, maybe stay a few days. Make a little vacation out of it. Not that there’s much to do in Sioux Falls, but I know Ellen would kill to meet you, and I’d like the chance to show you off.”

 _Wait._ He froze, his fingers hovering just above Sam’s palm. “You want me to meet your family?”

“Yes.”

“Me?” He glanced up at Sam, hoping he was just joking, and dismayed when he saw nothing but honest affection.

“Oh, shit. No, you’re right.” His heart sank, until Sam added, “I meant my _other_ boyfriend. It gets a little confusing, see, he also goes by Spencer.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Sam.”

“I’ve started calling him Spencer 2.0.”

“So, he’s the newer model?” Crossing his arms over his chest, Spencer leaned back against the passenger door, “Why haven’t you just upgraded and ditched the old version altogether? Seems like it’d be simpler.”

“The older model has a certain nostalgic charm, and I’m a sucker for vintage.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Sam grinned, his cheeks dimpling. “Seriously, though,” he said, his brows furrowing as he looked at Spencer entreatingly, “would you?”

It was cute that he thought Spencer could say no to him. Even though the thought of meeting Sam’s family terrified him, Spencer knew without a shadow of a doubt he would do it, just to make him happy. “I’ve never met someone’s parents before,” he said, “what if they don’t like me?”

“Then it’s their loss. But there’s no way they couldn’t,” Sam assured him, sliding as close as he could with Spencer’s feet up on the bench between them, “what with you being perfect, and all.”

Spencer smiled, watching as Sam wrapped his arms around Spencer’s legs and rested his chin on his bent knees. He was certainly charming. “How can I be perfect if I’m old and defective?”

Sam jutted out his lower lip. “I never said defective.”

Spencer swatted his shoulder, but Sam cradled his knees ever tighter, looking at him with questioning, upturned eyes. Brushing a lock of hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear, Spencer relented, murmuring, “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, perking up.

“Yes. I’d love to.”

“Awesome!” Another car rocked theirs and Sam sat up, righting himself behind the wheel, “I’ll call Bobby and set something up.” He went to put the car in drive, their little interlude having run its course, but he stopped himself mid-motion, adding that, “I do have one stipulation though.”

“And that is?” Spencer asked, buckling his seatbelt before he got scolded again.

He should have known from the glint in his eye that whatever Sam’s stipulation was, he wasn’t going to like it. But he couldn’t have possibly anticipated that Sam would suggest, “We swing by the grocery store, pick up a carton of eggs and pay that homophobic ass-wipe a visit.”

“Sam!” Spencer gave him a lighthearted shove to the shoulder, “Now who’s being childish?”

“What if we wait until the place is closed?” Sam pleaded, “Go back and attack under cover of darkness?”

Pursing his lips, Spencer pondered his request. “No property damage?”

“Unless you count the eggs his property.” He nudged Spencer in the ribs with one sharp elbow, buffered by his thick parka sleeve, “C’mon Spence, what do you say?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

****

**Later that night…?**

“Can you really see inside men’s minds?” Charles demanded, presenting Spencer to a wall of monitors, and one camera, the red light shining in his eyes a harrowing reminder that his team were right on the other side of the recording, watching every move, every decision he made. Despite the haze that subsumed his mind, Spencer knew he needed to make every second count. “See these vermin?” Charles asked, “Choose one to die, I’ll let you choose one to live.”

“No.” Spencer answered, not taking his eyes off the video camera pointed right at him.

“I thought you wanted to be some kind of saviour?”

Spencer shook his head, “You’re a sadist in a psychotic break. You won’t stop killing, your word’s not true.”

Tracing his gaze to the video camera, Charles leaned in close. “The other heathens are watching,” he reminded him, “choose a sinner to die, and I’ll send the name and address of the person to be saved.”

His mind slowly chugged along, the drug still circulating through his system, and Spencer’s tongue lay like a heavy, useless lump in his mouth. He’d awoken from a wonderful dream, a memory of him and Sam, clinging to hope that it had been reality, and that the dream was really this horrible shed, this psychopathic killer, and his throbbing skull. Alas, he wasn’t that lucky, and Hankel had given him no time to mourn what he missed, what he lost upon regaining consciousness.

Instead, he was thrust back into this terrible game of cat and mouse, with his brain at half mast and his team watching, waiting for him to say something brilliant, something that would lead them to his location and save his life.

 _Think_ , he willed himself. _Where are you? What have you seen?_

Fish hearts and livers. “I won’t choose who gets slaughtered and have you leave their remains behind like a poacher,” he said slowly, his throat dry and hoarse, though from the Dilaudid or screaming, he couldn’t say.

_Please, be enough._

Charles bristled.

“You really see inside my mind, boy? You see I’m not a _liar_!?” Spencer saw the slap coming, but didn’t have the reflexes to guard against it. Charles’ hand came down hard on his slackened jaw, and Spencer’s teeth sliced into his cheek with the impact, blood pooling under his tongue, lacing against his gums before dribbling down his chin, “Choose one to die, save a life. Otherwise, they’re all dead.”

Spencer coughed, then spat, vibrant red splattering against his khaki pants. “Alright,” he stammered, his lungs rattling with building panic as he breathed, “I’ll choose who lives.”

“They’re all the same,” Charles said.

“Far right screen,” Spencer said without looking. It was cowardly, but if he were to see the people he condemned to death, he knew he wouldn’t be able to choose who to save.

“Marylin David,” Charles spoke into the camera, “4913 Walnut Creek Road.” And when he turned back to Spencer, his countenance entirely changed, Raphael told him with a self-righteous smile, “You’ve done your part, now it’s my turn.”

**After.**

“Reid, if you’re watching: you’re not responsible for this, do you understand me? He’s perverting God to justify murder. You are stronger than him, he cannot break you.”

Gideon’s words reverberated through the shed, but all Spencer could hear were their screams.

**Tired.**

“Tobias?” Spencer murmured, pulled from an uneasy sleep as the timid man crept towards him.

He nodded, dropping to his knees beside Spencer’s restrained form, “Sorry I had to leave for a while.”

“You can leave again,” Spencer said, forcing his eyes open, despite how they ached with exhaustion, watering even in the dim light of the fire, “and you can take me with you.”

“My father would be angry.”

“Not if he can’t find us.”

“He always finds me.”

“If you tell me where we are, my friends?” Spencer shifted in his seat, wishing he had control of his extremities so he could grab Tobias’ hands, so he could force him to look him in the eye as Spencer plead his case, “They’ll come and save us.”

Tobias paused, licking his lips thoughtfully, and Spencer foolishly allowed himself a moment of hope, only to have it quashed when Tobias shook his head solemnly, “We can’t be saved.”

Emotion welled in his throat, and Spencer sobbed, though he had no more tears to cry, “We can, we can I promise. If you tell me where we are, I’ll save us both.”

“Listen.” Tobias grabbed his arm, securing the belt around his bicep once more. Spencer struggled half-heartedly. “It’s not worth fighting,” he held up a loaded syringe, the dull needle point glinting wetly in the firelight, “Tell me it doesn’t make it better.”

He couldn’t, Spencer bemoaned. He was right.

He wondered if his defeat was obvious in his eyes, because the look Tobias gave him when he tentatively nodded, slackening his right arm so Tobias could find a vein, wasn’t one of victory or validation. It was calm, sympathetic resignation. He knew he was right, but he wasn’t happy about it.

And neither was Spencer. At least, not until that liquid bliss poured through his permitting body, and he couldn’t be bothered to be happy, or sad, or frightened at all.

 

**January 16 th, 2007**

“A disorder caused by a defect or damage to the hypothalamus, causing malfunction of the thirst mechanism, is…?”

Sam paused in his rampant pacing of Spencer’s living room to think for a moment, the light from the TV (muted and playing some foreign news cast) casting his shadow across the floor, as long and tall and tense as he was. He scratched his chin idly with one hand, and as he pondered the answer, Spencer reclined in the sofa, his bare feet up on the cushions, his head against the arm rest, and his eyes raking a path up Sam’s stalwart form.

It was well past the time he’d planned on going to bed, and if he were being kept awake to read from cue cards and sit in an otherwise silent room, he might as well enjoy the view. “Dipsogenic diabetes insipidus?” Sam answered cautiously, turning at the hips, the electric glow of the television rippling across the hills and valleys of his bare back.

“Yes,” Spencer said, practically drooling, “exactly.”

But Sam was oblivious, whether purposefully or not. “Alright, give me another.”

Groaning, Spencer dropped the cards into his lap and rubbed at his tired eyes with the heels of palms, “We’ve been doing this for hours!”

“And I’m still getting one in every fifteen wrong.” The couch rocked, and Sam picked up Spencer’s feet, taking their place on the cushions and depositing them comfortably in his lap. “Please, Spence? Just a few more?”

Spencer glared at him when he dropped his hands. “You’re making mistakes because you’re stressed and exhausted. It’s—” he looked at his watch, “Three in the morning.”

“I just woke up like six hours ago,” Sam protested.

“You were on call yesterday.” Stealing his feet back, Spencer curled his legs underneath him as he sat up, “You only slept for five hours, and you’re not presenting this seminar until Monday. That’s three days away, you still have plenty of time to study.”

“All the more reason to make the most of it.”

Impossible. He was being _impossible_ , but Sam was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch when he wanted to be, and Spencer, after a long, dubious stare did nothing to dissuade him, gave in. With an explosive, frustrated sigh, he snatched the cue cards up again and asked, “Which is the more sensitive measure of thyroid function? Free T4, Free T3, or TSH?”

“TSH?” Sam asked back, as though he didn’t know the answer.

“Yes!” Spencer cuffed him jovially on the shoulder, “See, you’ve got this. Can we go to bed now?”

Sam shook his head. “You can go, I want to study a bit more.”

“Why?”

He held fast to the cue cards when Sam went to take them. “Because the only reason Crowley assigned me is that he knows I struggle with endocrinology,” Sam told him, tugging uselessly on the cards that were held firm in Spencer’s deceptively strong grip, “and he wants to see me fall on my face.”

“Or,” Spencer said, relinquishing the cards to grab Sam’s wrist instead, guiding him closer, “maybe he assigned you because he knows you’re your own worst enemy, and that if he gave you a goal to focus on, you’d move past your insecurity and realize you actually know what you’re talking about?”

Sam put up a half-hearted protest, but he couldn’t resist as Spencer let his legs fall to the sides, beckoning Sam into the space between his thighs and leaning back until Sam all but blanketed him, holding himself aloft with his hands on either side of Spencer’s head. “But I’ve—” he started, cut off by a quick gasp as Spencer nipped at his chin.

“Answered virtually every question correctly. Talked my ear off during dinner and actually taught me something new.” Spencer pecked his cheek, smoothing over Sam’s stubbled jaw with his fingertips. “Which is astounding, seeing as I’ve spent the better half of my teens learning about metabolic disorders.” He was finally getting through to him, if his lack of objection was any indication. He smoothed his hands down Sam’s front and looked him in the eye, “If you can do that, I’m certain you can entertain a bunch of medical students for half an hour.”

A wry smile crawled its way across Sam’s lips, as he asked, “Do you ever get tired of being right all the time?”

Spencer shrugged. “Not really, no.”

“Can we just do five more?” Sam asked, grabbing the discarded cue cards, “I promise, whether I get them right or not, we can go to bed after that.”

“What’s in it for me?”

As Sam sat up, backing against the other side of the couch, Spencer didn’t have a moment to mourn the loss of contact before he was tugging him along. He switched their positions, pulling Spencer between his thighs, Sam’s chest to Spencer’s back. Cupping his large hands over Spencer’s shoulders, Sam slowly but firmly rubbed his thumbs in soothing circles over Spencer’s tense neck, skillfully working out the kinks in his muscles, and Spencer melted against him. “Get my feet too, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” he said, his head lolling forwards, rocking gently back and forth with every sure pass of Sam’s strong hands.

Sam kissed his temple. “Thank you, Bambi.”

The mood shifted the very instant Sam started massaging him, the feel of Sam’s firm, muscular chest against his shoulder blades heady even through the dulling layer of Spencer’s flannel pajama top. He could feel Sam’s heart beat, steady and sure, and his breath puffing against the bare skin of Spencer’s neck, making his hair raise and his skin prickle with heat. “What are the common symptoms of hypothyroidism?” Spencer asked, reading off a card and shielding it from Sam’s eyes with his palms, remembering he had a job to do.  

“Weight gain, dry skin, hair loss and hyporeflexia,” Sam answered without an ounce of hesitation, though he shifted behind him, spreading his legs a little wider, urging Spencer to lean back even more against him.

“Good.” Spencer ran his palms over Sam’s thigh’s, lightly down and pressing in with his fingers on the way back up, the plush fabric of his sweat pants bunching under his touch.  As Sam rolled out a particularly tough knot, his hand practically encircling Spencer’s delicate neck as he smoothed it away, Spencer read another, his voice high and tight, “What is Cushing’s syndrome?”

And he’d be damned if Sam’s answering voice wasn’t an octave lower, grumbling as he spoke directly to Spencer’s ear, “A disease process caused by abnormally high levels of cortisol.”

Sam shifted his hips behind him, and his growing intent pressed hot and firm against Spencer’s back. Spencer chuckled, dropping his chin towards his chest. God, they were ridiculous. It was laughable how completely insatiable they were, and that a simple neck massage and study session couldn’t possibly remain PG when the two of them were involved. “What is an Addisonian crisis?”

“Severe adrenal insufficiency.” Sam leaned forwards and nipped at his neck, trailing kisses along the path carved by his thumbs, and this time when he rocked his hips forwards, he did so with purpose, grinding his erection against the slope of Spencer’s lower back. “Resulting in dangerously low serum cortisol levels.”

Gripping Sam’s thighs firmly, Spencer used them as leverage to push himself forwards, moving himself just of out Sam’s reach. He laughed when Sam growled against his throat and dropped his hands to Spencer’s hips, hauling him back without pretense and flattening Spencer against his chest. “A-and what are the symptoms of Addison’s disease?” he stammered breathlessly, his chest hitching as Sam pulled him into his lap in earnest, slotting his big, hard cock against his rear and rolling his hips, his thighs straining apart.

“Weight loss, hyperpigmentation, fatigue, and postural hypotension.” He was playing those devilish fingers across Spencer’s abdomen, dipping dangerously beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, and lacing through the coarse trail of dark blonde hair that lead right to where Spencer truly wanted him. “Was that five, yet?” Sam asked, mouthing wet kisses against the slope of Spencer’s shoulder, nosing the collar of his shirt out of the way as he went.

Spencer snorted in amusement. “Oh, so now you’re in a rush?”

“Can you blame me?” Sam asked, bucking his hips against Spencer’s rear and jostling him playfully, wringing a giggle from between Spencer’s parted lips.

And as much as he agreed with Sam that there were certainly more pressing matters at hand, Spencer was having far too much fun driving him mad to stop now. So, even as it pained him to do so, Spencer pulled away, grinning gleefully at the marriage of shock and hazy arousal on Sam’s confused expression, and sat on the opposite end of the couch, plopping his feet in Sam’s lap.

“Really?” Sam asked, looking like one of Spencer’s dirtiest dreams. His bare chest heaved as he sat bathed in the dull glow of the television, legs spread obscenely wide and his impressive length tenting his sweats, flexing against the seam so invitingly Spencer couldn’t help but stretch out one of his bare feet, running the arch against him and pressing firmly, feeling him throb against his sole.

“Really,” he answered, massaging Sam’s cock with curve of his foot, his own arousal aching with need as Sam thickened beneath his touch. Before he could get in over his head, he snatched his foot away, Sam whimpering at the loss of contact as Spencer asked, “Which of the following is acromegaly caused by: over production of GnRH, ACTH, GH, or antidiuretic hormone?”

“GH,” Sam said, grabbing Spencer’s foot and immediately massaging his thumbs against the heel, wresting a startled moan from his lover.

Spencer threw his head back against the couch cushions, closing his eyes and licking his lips as he lost himself a little in the feeling of Sam’s firm touch. His hands were godly powerful and when he tugged Spencer forward for a better grip, Spencer went willingly, his body slumping lax into the sofa. “What is the underlying problem in neurogenic diabetes insipidus?” he asked, cracking his eyes open just enough to read the cue card.

“Lack of vasopressin,” Sam answered. He slouched down, rolling Spencer’s toes one by one between his fingers before kissing the arch of his foot, taking Spencer entirely by surprise.

“Stop that,” Spencer half-heartedly protested, sighing as Sam continued to kiss and nip at his foot, blazing a trail down to his ankle where he sucked harshly, pulling from Spencer a quiet, helpless moan.  

“Stop what?” Sam asked, mouthing back up the arch of Spencer’s foot, before looping it over his shoulder. He shifted onto his hands and knees, kissing his way down Spencer’s calf to his inner knee, feeding his long, bare leg over his shoulder until Spencer’s thighs were bracketing his head, Sam’s chin nudging against Spencer’s neglected cock as Sam laved his tongue over his hipbone.

“You wanted to study more,” Spencer stammered, his legs tensing around Sam’s ears as his lover closed a skillful hand over his erection, stroking him gently through his boxers as he sucked a bruise into his inner thigh, “that’s what you’re getting. You’re not going to distract me.”

He already was. It was a loosing battle to concentrate, and Spencer could hardly be bothered to hold out when Sam was between his thighs, his broad, muscular back flexing as he hauled Spencer further down, prompting him to wrap his legs around his head. Spencer’s breath caught in his throat as Sam pawed at his ass, mouthing over his still-clothed erection, but still he asked, “What are the signs of acromegaly?”

Sam chuckled against him, hands busy kneading Spencer’s rear. “Prominent supraorbital ridge, enlargement of hands and fingers, oily skin, macroglossia, bi-temporal hemianopia, and increased jaw prominence.”

“Technically, it’s any visual field defect, but I’ll give you that one.” Sam pushed up from between his thighs, scaling Spencer’s torso as he ran his hands along his sides, shoving his shirt out of the way. “This is also terrible dirty talk,” Spencer told him with a sigh, kissing Sam sloppily and burying his fingers in his hair once his lips were within reach.

Rolling his hips downwards, Sam’s thick, heavy cock nudged against Spencer’s, the friction through their layers of clothes both maddeningly delightful and torturously not enough. “Is it working?” he grunted, one of his questing hands pausing against Spencer’s chest to tweak his nipple, and as Spencer cried out in delight, he snapped up Spencer’s upper lip between his own, sucking gently.  

God, he was too good at this, too skilled at taking Spencer to pieces, reducing his genius IQ to a fading memory in the wake of his all-encompassing pleasure. “No thanks to the oily skin and macroglossia,” Spencer gasped, the cue cards that had rested on his chest fluttering off onto the floor as he arched his back, writhing as Sam rolled the sensitive nub between his fingers, “but yes, it is.”

“Maybe I’m just that good.” As cocky as he was, Sam was having a hard time reining himself in, asking impatiently, “Was that five?”

“Maybe you’re bad at counting,” he said with a smile, swatting Sam playfully on the ass, “because that was seven.”

His world spun on its axis as Sam stood up, throwing Spencer over his shoulder and carrying him up the stairs.

Spencer bounced off the mattress when Sam tossed him onto the bed, his pillows puffing around his head. “You’re such a caveman,” Spencer giggled, and Sam paused, kneeling at the edge of the mattress to beat his chest and furrow his brow to that effect.

“I’m just trying to deliver on what I promised,” Sam said, shuffling forwards so he could kiss the tip of Spencer’s nose, his fingers hooking in the waistband of Spencer’s boxers and tugging down…

Spencer clapped his hands over Sam’s, stopping him in his tracks. “Last I checked, I could sleep clothed.”

“Who said anything about sleep?” Sam asked with a grin, “I promised we could go to bed, I didn’t say anything about what we’d do when we got here.” He rolled onto his back with a put-out sigh, his hands behind his head, “But if you’ve made up your mind—”

Throwing a leg across Sam’s hips, Spencer rolled on top of him, “Maybe I can be convinced.”

“Can be?” Sam asked, his jaw slack as Spencer swiveled his hips, rocking Sam’s cock between the cleft of his rear, and his hands came down tight on Spencer’s thighs, guiding him into the rhythm of a lazy grind, “or have been?”

“I’m not tired anymore.” Letting Sam move his hips as he pleased, Spencer busied himself with removing his shirt, popping each button free as careful as he could manage, “So take that as you will.”

“Oh Spence, you know how I get when I let my imagination run wild.” Sam rolled them again, pinning Spencer beneath his hips and tearing the last of his buttons open, sucking hungrily at his newly exposed collarbone. “Are you sure you want to be responsible for that?” he asked, snaking a hand between them and cupping Spencer through his boxers, his larger frame keeping him flattened to the mattress even as Spencer reared up in delight, his back arching at the first hint of welcome contact.

“I believe I already am.” He moaned shamelessly, spreading his legs as wide as he could manage, his toes curling in the sheets as Sam fondled him, rocking his own hard cock, thick, hot, and straining up towards his belly, into Spencer’s soft inner thigh. “I just have one question for you,” Spencer murmured, a jolt of excitement shooting up his spine as Sam shoved his hand into his boxers, curling his fist around the head of his cock and smearing the steady stream of pre-cum already drooling down his shaft.

“Anything,” Sam answered rapaciously, so enamoured, so aroused, so desperate to work his way inside his lover that Spencer didn’t doubt for a second Sam would honestly agree to anything he asked of him in that moment.

He couldn’t help but throw out one last, teasing jab, asking: “What are Sertoli cells responsible for producing?”

Every one in fifteen questions, Sam didn’t have an answer for him.

**…**

“No!” Charles howled as he stared at the wall of empty monitors, his video having gone down seconds after a red warning signal appeared, “They’re trying to silence my message!”

Spencer winced, from the volume of his voice and the implications of his tone. He was angry, he knew that Spencer’s team had taken his video down, and he had Spencer in his clutches—there was only one person he could take his frustrations out on. “I can’t control what they do,” Spencer tried to rationalize with him, his voice cracking with sheer terror, “I’m not with them, I’m with you!”

From his encounters with Charles so far, Spencer expected to be hit. What he didn’t anticipate was a condescending glare and a drawled, “Really?” Sauntering over to his main computer, he clicked a few keys and, to Spencer’s complete and utter dismay, pulled up Gideon’s message. “You think you can defy me?” he asked menacingly.

He was so screwed. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“You’re a liar!” Charles flew over to him, backhanding him across the face so hard that were he not tied to the spot, Spencer would have fallen to the floor in a daze. His narrowed eyes snapped down to Spencer’s arm, where Tobias had left his belt wrapped loosely around the crook of his elbow, and when Charles pulled up his sleeve to see the needle marks, he spat in disgust, “You’re pitiful! Just like my son!”

He turned the camera on.

“This ends now.” Another blow, and Spencer’s head flew to the left, “Confess your sins. Confess!”

Spencer sobbed, his chest heaving, punching in and out quickly between blows as Charles’ open-handed slaps turned into devastating right hooks. “I haven’t done anything!” he cried, blubbering spit and blood as he tried to catch his breath, to calm down. But all he could manage to do was beg, “Tobias, help me!”

“He can’t help you,” Charles hissed, “he’s weak!”

Was it better or worse that his team was watching this, Spencer wondered as he pleaded with Tobias to spare him? This had to be the lowest point in his life, worse than being tied naked to a flagpole by the football team when he was only twelve years old, so was it beneficial to have the people he cared for and respected the most seeing it? Was it like a show of solidarity, or a humiliating exercise in futility? Did he want them to see him like this, or did he want them to think that, in the face of his imminent demise, he was brave?

What did it matter, really? He was weeping, struggling to breathe as Charles knocked his chair to the ground, with him still attached. His body still floated with the second dose of Dilaudid he was fed, and soon, the blows to his face and neck faded to nothingness, overtaken by the white haze that subsumed the edges of his vision, and a cold, creeping unconsciousness.

When sleep took him, he was glad for it.

There was no pain.

No fear, no anxiety.

Nothing to see.

A blackness. A dull, colourless, all encompassing void.

A light in the corners of his vision.

A voice.

The crack of bone.

Sharp pain in his chest.

And then he came to, with the sudden realization that he hadn’t been asleep at all.

Bile stung the back of his throat, coated his tongue, and made him gag. Each cough that tore from his throat burned and stung, each deep and gasping breath of life making his nose fountain snot and his eyes water profusely. His vision refused to cooperate, squinting, and rolling back intermittently as he tried to get them to focus on what was around him.

An empty shed.

A single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

A tombstone.

_A tombstone?_

Spencer’s body felt like a lifeless block, his limbs like putty. His heart _hurt_ , like every beat in his chest was a struggle, and his lungs felt as though he’d inhaled an oceans worth of water. It was like waking from a decades long sleep, his muscles atrophied and uncooperative, and as he crawled his way to understanding, he found he couldn’t decide if his newfound consciousness was a blessing, or a curse.

Because, hovering above him was Raphael, staring down at his prone body with a look of wonder. “You came back to life,” he breathed.

“Raphael,” Spencer wheezed, clenching his eyes shut.

“There can be one of two reasons.”

He laughed without meaning to, but once it was out there, he didn’t wish it back. It was comical, the depth of this psychopath’s delusion. At least, it was now. “I was given CPR.”

“There are no accidents.” Raphael righted his chair, sitting Spencer up despite his moan of protest, “How many members on your team?”

“Seven.”

“The seven angels who held the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound. The first sound followed hail and fire, mixed with blood, and they were thrown to earth.” Spencer’s eyes were closed, but he still heard the telltale metallic clink of the revolver. “Tell me who you serve.”

“I serve you.”

“Then choose one to die.”

Spencer furrowed his brow, and in his post- _post_ mortem haze, asked, “What?”

“Your team members,” Raphael said, “choose one to die.”

 _No. That wasn’t happening._ “Kill me.”

“You said you weren’t one of them?”

“I lied.” Spencer glared up at him, this sad little man with a revolver pointed between Spencer’s eyes, and suddenly, death didn’t frighten him anymore. He’d already done it once. “Kill me.”

“Your team has six other members. Tell me who dies.”

“No.”

“Choose,” Raphael pulled the hammer, “and prove you’ll do God’s will.”

This time, when Spencer said, “No,” the hammer slammed into a blessedly empty chamber.

He took a long, shuddering breath.

One down.

Five to go.

“Choose.”

“I won’t do it,” Spencer hissed, though his voice trembled. Fear was once again eking through the cracks, and when Raphael pulled the trigger, the click of an empty chamber reverberating through the shed, he shuddered in relief.

Four left.

“Life is a choice.”

“No.”

Three. One of those three chambers held the bullet that would end his life.

Was this the hill he decided to die on?

“Choose.”

A gambling man at heart, he was. And one in three were not good odds.

He needed to give him an answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the camera, the red flashing light a reminder that his teammates were right there, watching every move he made. Listening to his every word.

_Wait._

“I choose Aaron Hotchner,” Spencer said, and despite his protesting throat, still raw from having suffocated mere moments ago, he spoke as loud as he could muster, still staring directly at the camera. _Please, Hotch. Please understand._ “He’s a classic narcissist, thinks he’s better than everyone else on the team. Genesis 23:4: let he who not deceive himself trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility. These shall be his recompense.”

Raphael smiled, the sardonic grin of a madman who won at his own rigged game. And when he pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger, the hammer slammed against that single loaded bullet, cracking with the finality of its shot.

Producing another bullet from his pocket, he loaded the gun again.

“For Gods will.”

**Tobias’ watch says 8pm.**

“Tobias,” Spencer murmured between sips of water, “thank you. You saved my life.”

But his saviour didn’t look pleased. “I’m sorry,” he said, averting his gaze.

Spencer frowned. “For what?”

“They’ll win in the end.”

He couldn’t give him a moment, could he? Spencer sighed, resting his head back against the chair, letting his gaze drift to the ceiling as Tobias wrapped his belt around his arm. He was tired, in pain, and that quickly familiar prick of a needle couldn’t come fast enough for his liking. “Tobias, I need to know something,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “it’s important. Are we in a cemetery?”

Tobias bit his lower lip, glancing up from the syringe he was filling and nodded. “I used to come here to get high,” he said.

 _I was right._ “I was right.”

“No one bothers you here. I never told anyone about it.”

Spencer let his eyes flutter shut, the ghost of a smile curling his lips as that sweet, saccharine poison took him away from this awful place.

 

**February 1 st, 2007**

“I meant what I said,” Sam added, and Spencer bit back as gasp as he gripped him tight, settling him into his lap, Spencer’s thighs spread wide across his hips, “you don’t need to say it back, but I do love you.”

“I know,” Spencer said, his eyes hazy as he kissed the tip of Sam’s nose, warring with himself despite the calm, soothing lilt of his voice. He knew what he wanted to say, wrestled it to the very tip of his tongue, but in the last second the letters rearranged themselves, and all that came out was a pitiful, “thank you.”

Why was it so hard to say?

What was wrong with him?

This was his last chance.

He just needed to spit it out, before it was too late…

**Last chance.**

“I love you,” Spencer murmured, caught between dream and reality, his eyes closed as he tried to cling to that memory, to change before he no longer could, “I love you— Sam I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“Who is Sam?”

Charles’ voice permeated the haze of unconsciousness, and Spencer grimaced. Was he real? Or was he a figment of his imagination? With a strange, horrified thrill, he found he didn’t care anymore. “I never told him—I never told him how much I—”

Footsteps. Charles closed the distance between them, and came to a stop in front of Spencer’s chair. He wondered how long they would stay like this, until Raphael took over, intent of bringing Spencer to justice. He knew he should wake up, shake the dream from his head, and join Hankel in the present like his life depended on it, because it _did,_ but—

God, he was just _so tired._

“Is that a confession?”

Spencer frowned, “Confession of what?”

“Leviticus 20:13: If a man lies with a male as he lies with a woman, both have committed an abomination. They shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them.”

His eyes snapped open, the hazy light of the shed forcing him to squint. “No,” he said firmly, his dry, cracked lips pulling into a frown, “it’s not a confession. It can’t be a confession if it’s not a sin.”

Charles spat on the ground. “You know your bible, sodomite.”

What a surprising turn of events, Spencer mused as unbridled fury churned inside of him. Just seconds ago, he was so done with fighting that he was willing to accept his fate and throw any personal responsibility to the wind. But Hankel decided to poke at the one thing he couldn’t shake, the one part of himself and his life he was not, would not, and could never be made to feel ashamed of, and it lit a fire under his ass.

He could attack Spencer’s intellect, his character, and his strength.

He could beat and torture him to his hearts content.

But if Hankel thought for one second he could destroy the one thing that had kept Spencer sane in this place, or tarnish the love that he held so dear to his heart?

Then he had another thing coming.

“The bible doesn’t condemn homosexuality, asshole,” Spencer snapped.

“God condemns sexual immorality, adultery, lewdness. All these evils come from inside and defile you. Mark 7:20-23. Homosexual conduct is sin, boy. Confess.”

Spencer’s lips pulled tight over his teeth as he snarled, “No.”

“Confess!”

“No!”

His frustration mounting in the face of Spencer’s sudden defiance, Charles backhanded him across the mouth, his expression contorting into something so sinister it was verging on comical. “Confess, or you’ll surely die.”

Spencer spat, blood and mucus slapping against the floor in a wet ball. “I’m going to die either way,” he said, “I won’t let you ruin what we have and twist it into something immoral and wicked.”

“What you _have_ is against God’s will—”

“Then fuck God!” Rearing up, Spencer tore at the bonds that kept his hands firmly pressed to the arms of the chair, the rope biting into his skin as he strained them upwards, wishing he could just reach out and smack that smug, hideous look off Hankel’s face once and for all. “I know what I feel and I know that it can be nothing but good, and pure and right. And any God that would tell me that my love is wrong is not one I want anything to do with! I will confess that I love him,” he roared, his voice reaching an octave he didn’t think it could, a sound he’d never heard himself make before, “but I will _not_ confess that it’s a sin!”

Wrong answer it seemed, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Even without his confession, he’d been judged the moment he followed Hankel into that corn field.

His hands were freed quickly after that, and as he was dragged from the cabin to the cemetery, he kept his eye on the revolver in Hankel’s pocket. It hung out of his jacket, the handle gleaming in the lanterns glow as Charles pulled him forcibly across the field, his knees jittering like a newborn deer, but free from the restraints that had held him for days. And as he was thrust into a shallow grave, a spade in his hand and expected to dig it for himself, his mind came alive once again.

This was his chance. And if he didn’t figure out a way to get free of his captor _now_ , there would be no others.

“Faster,” Charles shouted.

He’d been immobilized, drugged, and starved for days. How fast was he expected to dig a giant freaking hole in the ground? “I can’t,” Spencer cried, shoving the spade into the ground, and leaning against the handle. He needed Hankel closer, he needed to get that gun within reach, “I’m too weak.”

If the past few days had moved like a slowly crawling stream, these last moments ran like wild rapids. Every instant was integral, and whipping past at breakneck speed, like someone had turned the world to fast forward. It took seconds for Hankel to remove his jacket as he made to climb into the grave. And it took even less for Spencer to reach out and grab the revolver from his pocket and point it squarely at his head.

Charles froze, then laughed. He reached down, picked up the machete that had been sitting at the foot of the grave and hovered just on the lip of it, staring down at Spencer in his pit in the ground. “Only one bullet in that gun, boy,” he said, before he lunged forwards.

Spencer pulled the trigger, moaning in defeat when all he got for his effort was the click of an empty trigger.

He pulled the hammer, then tried again, rewarded with another big fat load of nothing.

Charles was half in the grave, and he was out of time. But still, he tried again, closing his eyes as he pulled the trigger, not wanting to watch as Charles cut into him with that first hack of his machete.

There was a resounding crack, and the solid, final thump of a body hitting the ground.

Spencer blinked and looked at his gun, the muzzle cold. That bullet hadn’t been his.

He patted his chest, his shoulders. He was fine; no injuries to be found, besides the ones he’d already sustained.

He glanced up, coming face to face with poor Tobias as he lay dead on the ground, his upper body slumping into the grave, one lifeless hand lolling over the lip, the machete at Spencer’s feet.

An arm closed around Spencer’s bicep, and suddenly, he was forcibly hauled from the grave. He flailed and cried out, kicking his legs, wiggling his arm, trying to break free from a hold that had come from out of nowhere. He couldn’t see his assailant, whom he could only assume saved his life, but that came as no consolation. The person who was pulling him up to solid ground had shot Hankel in the temple at close range, must have emerged from the trees while Spencer was grabbing the revolver, and hadn’t said a word in the process.

How long had they been there? Were they cops? Was this Hotch lifting him from his grave? An accomplice of Hankel’s? Or was this just some random hunter, who happened upon him in dire need?

Whoever it was, Spencer was beyond rationality. He had spent days held against his will, tortured, starved, and drugged. He’d faced his death too many times in that night alone to even consider speaking to this person. All he knew was he was being touched, and he couldn’t see by whom. He knew his captor was dead, and his legs were free. This was the first time since his capture that he had even the slightest glimmer of hope that he might escape, and his fight or flight reflexes kicked into high gear, flooding his muscles with adrenaline, and giving him one last burst of strength so that he might fight his way to freedom.

So, Spencer kicked and bucked, writhing in this stranger’s grasp until he was twisted around, until he could see the leather jacket he wore, and the work boots on his new captor’s feet. He flailed his arms, throwing slaps, punches, and scratching whatever he could reach as he howled, screaming what weren’t even words, just desperate sounds of anguish and fear.

But it was to no avail. His blows were pitifully weak, and this man had a good couple inches on him, plus the advantage of having eaten recently, probably. He deflected Spencer’s attacks easily, holding tight to his bicep and catching one wildly thrashing wrist with his free hand. “Woah, woah,” he said, his voice a supple, Midwestern drawl, “easy Spence, I’m not gonna hurt you. Here.”

Spencer balked as he was set gently on the ground, he back against the trunk of an old, withering oak. _How did he know his name?_ He probably was a cop, Spencer thought. Great, now all the Atlanta PD would know him not only as the fed that let himself get captured by an unsub, but the one that slap-fought like a nine-year-old girl.

The stranger stood above him, a gun holstered on his hip. The one he used to kill Hankel, he presumed. Spencer frowned curiously as he very nearly recognized him, though he was certain he’d never met him before. He was tall, broad shouldered and handsome, though he looked as though he lived out of his car. His clothes were rumpled old hand-me-downs, his hands were scarred along the knuckles from age old fist fights and his boots were holding on at the seams. But he was gorgeous, with dirty blonde hair and full lips twisted into a scowl as he glanced around the cemetery, taking stock of their surroundings.

He knew him, though Spencer couldn’t place where. That was odd, wasn’t it? Had the Dilaudid fried his brain, or was he just that tired? “Who are you?” he asked.

“No one important,” the stranger grunted, striding over to Hankel’s lifeless corpse and squatting beside him, “just cleaning up another one of dads messes.”

Curiously, the stranger turned his back to Spencer and began rifling through Hankel’s pockets, tossing whatever random crap he found (receipts, bible pages, a syringe, and vials of Dilaudid, which Spencer tracked hungrily with his gaze) into the grave. As voices appeared in the distance, sirens climbing closer to their location and flashlights flickering in the woods, the stranger pulled out Hankel’s cellphone with a triumphant noise, and pocketed it.

He stood up and glanced over his shoulder, lights and footsteps fast approaching. “And that’s my cue,” he said, point a strict finger at Spencer, “You get your ass home safe, you hear? That’s your one job.”

The man took off in a sprint in the opposite direction, and Spencer felt as though he should call out to the authorities, to tell them where he was headed, but he was suddenly wiped of all energy. He could hardly move, so much as speak, and as quickly as he had appeared, the man who had saved his life was gone.

And once Hotch and the rest of his team broke from the treeline, Spencer hardly remembered he was there at all.

**February 4 th @ 7pm**

“I can save him,” Tobias pleaded with his father, pacing back and forth outside of the shed. The agent—Reid, he’d said his name was Reid—he’d stopped breathing, but so had Tobias, many times. He knew how to bring men back from the dead when a hit overwhelmed them.

“How?” Charles snapped, and Tobias cowered, “By breathing a sinner’s breath into his lungs? You’re not saving anyone.”

He needed to try. “I can—”

His pocket vibrated, his cellphone suddenly ringing.

“Answer it,” said his father

“Who could it—”

“You know who it is, boy! Answer it!”

With a nervous gulp, Tobias flipped open his phone and held it up to his ear, answering tentatively, “Hello?”

“Tobias, what in heavens name are you doing?”

 “I um—" He didn’t recognize the voice of the man on the other line, but he spoke in a clear, scholarly British accent, one that was dripping with both pity and scorn. “Who is this?” Tobias asked.

“You’ve got international attention; do you know that?” The man on the phone said, ignoring his question. His father preened at the praise, “Paris Hilton famous in one night! I’d congratulate you if we weren’t so bloody furious.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tobias stammered.

The man on the phone sighed. “Your videos, you poor, demented little idiot. The Pastor is not pleased.”

“The videos?”

“The Pastor’s seen them?” Charles asked.

“Yes.” Charles smiled wide and proud. His hero had seen them, had witnessed his good work. “And he wants you to pull the plug, immediately.”

His fathers smile faltered. “Why?”

“Are you even hearing me?” The voice was losing their patience. “Your videos are being streamed across the globe. Do you know how much heat you’re bringing down on us? How close you are to exposing us? Not just the American chapter either, I’ll have you know.”

“My videos are spreading His word,” Charles argued, and Tobias shrunk back, distancing himself from his fathers rising ire, “I’m His messenger! I’m _contributing_ to our cause!”

“You’re making a fool of yourself, and you’re going to get caught. We have rules. We have protocols, and we have them in place for a reason. We’re fighting a war, and your incessant need to steal the spotlight is upending The Pastor’s strategies.”

“ _I’m_ fighting the war,” Charles bellowed, “the rest of you good for nothing, weak willed little layabouts just sit behind your computers and—”

“I’m not arguing with you, Tobias. This is not a debate.” His tone was curt and clipped now, and if Charles was losing his temper, this man had lost his willingness to deal with him, “Your father may have been a hunter, but you’re not. You’re a techie grunt playing a role you were not built for, and because of this, you’re putting us all in jeopardy. Shut it down now, or we’ll do it for you.”

The stranger hung up, and the line hummed. Dead.

“I can save him,” Tobias said.

“Fine.”


End file.
